Doctor House Takes A Vacation
by Tidwell
Summary: It's not what you think...you are curious...you will call the number. You will not be sorry." The challenge is irresistible, all House needs to send him off on a very strange trip. A nod and a wink to The Prisoner. House, Wilson, Cuddy and a few OCs
1. Preflight

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**-1-**

"Pre-flight"

House is not in the mood for Kutner. All he wants from this early afternoon is to vegetate in the doctor's lounge, sip his cola and stare at the 42" plasma TV screen. "Prescription Passions" has been on for the last ten minutes. It has become 'his show', surpassing "General Hospital" as his favorite daytime drama. The stories are bolder, sordid, more daring. The women show more cleavage.

_Yeah..._

In today's episode, Nurse Hilliard receives an anonymous letter stating that her father's mistress is the biological mother of Baby Fay, the newborn left in a basket outside the town orphanage. Will Nurse Hilliard adopt the child? Will Baby Fay grow up never knowing that her mother is really her half-sister?

House sips the dregs of his soda, fascinated.

"House?"

Kutner hasn't gotten the hint to make like a tree and leave. His wide-eyed, puppy dog look makes House remember the headache that's been plaguing him since the dawn's early light. That pain is a living thing, jabbing him in the temples each time Kutner blinks. _ Shit. _ Why can't life be easy like Sunday morning, or never dull like the world of "Prescription Passions"? _Ah, well. _What he needs are his pills and his pills he shall have. The vial is warm and safe, shoved down deep inside his front jeans pocket. He groans, reaching for it, then brings it out and spills three of the lovelies into his hand. Eyes closed, he makes a wish before pushing them into his mouth, rolling them on his tongue before sending them on their way.

When he looks again, Kutner is still here, his expression more intensely loopy than before.

_Wish not granted. Thanks for playing._

"I sent you and the other two musketeers to do a barium swallow and a barium meal test on the patient seven minutes ago. " House pushes the vial back into his pocket, then grabs the remote that waits like a good dog by his side. He switches the channel with his thumb but rests his forefinger on the 'back' button. The announcer assured him "Prescription Passions" will return after these few words, and who is he to doubt the guy?

Slowly he turns his gaze toward his minion. "Why aren't you watching the patient make all gone with her drink?"

"We're having a problem with Mrs. Abramowitz."

"Is she clinically dead?"

"No."

"Bleeding out of multiple orifices?"

"No...but-"

"Pregnant?"

"She's seventy-three years old, House."

"It's nothing you can't handle," House pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales sharply. The ache has eased to a dull throb. It won't be long before that nice floaty feeling hits. Then all will be as it should. "Tell her to drink up."

"She won't."

"Tell her to drink her barium like a good old girl or she'll get an ice cold thermometer up her _tuchas_"

Kutner rubs his hands together before shoving them in the pockets of his lab coat. "She won't drink it. Took a sip, says it tastes like _chuk_."

"Chalk?"

"She says _chuk."_

"Send her to radiology. Let them deal with her."

Kutner shifts from one foot to the other, restless as a teenager waiting for the Fall Out Boy show to start. "She's Cuddy's pet, House."

"Don't care how much green the old lady's spread around. She doesn't run you and she sure as hell doesn't run me."

"Radiology won't take her until she's been prepped." Kutner shrugs and throws House a lopsided grin. "Sorry."

House presses the 'back' button on the remote and tilts his head. On the TV, Nurse Hilliard is consulting with Dr. Brock Sterling in a most unprofessional manner. How is it that the nurses in Princeton-Plainsboro are nowhere near as obliging? The scene ends and the commercial with the singing cat begins.

"House." Kutner is still here, still waiting, still intruding on his day.

"You're useless," House pushes himself from his chair. He grabs his cane and barrels by his fellow, nearly knocking him down. "just like everyone else."

* * *

As years went, this one sucked. Royally. With a gold-plated straw. House isn't used to having things easy but thinks it would be nice if the Karma gods saw fit to back off for awhile. He quickens his uneven pace down the corridor, bites his lower lip. Abruptly he squelches the thought of those gods, just in case they're bored and are in the market for new reasons to screw with him.

_Never used to be so easily intimidated. Always used to let the stupid stuff roll right off those hunched shoulders._

Kutner appears at his side.

"Go away," House growls.

"You'll need me in there, House," Kutner says.

With a snort, House turns the corner and decides to ignore the queasiness riding round his gut like a nauseous kid on a Tilt-a-Whirl.

This climb back to semi-normalcy has not been interesting, cool or fun. If anything, it's been as daunting as rowing a dinghy against a tidal wave. Those ghosts from the night of the bus accident are pleased he's still cowed by them; they pick the worst times to assault him. Reading a chart, he feels the upsy-daisy lift of the wheels as the bus tilts onto its side like a wounded beast. The screech of tires join the screams of passengers, tossed and whipped around like tissues in a whirlwind. _Those people,_ he thinks, as the memory engulfs him, making him catch his breath, _they just wanted to get to where they were going._

_(wherever they were fucking going...what were you thinking...drunk...morose...if it wasn't for you...Amber would still be around...tormenting you...probably married to Wilson...by now...)_

Old news. He has been over this again and again. But still, those thoughts refuse to leave him, like some leech of a woman, clinging to his side despite the fact that whatever they had was gone and done.

_It's all over now, Baby Blue. _

He is finally getting to the point where a conversation with Wilson isn't rife with sullen silences and accusatory glares. They can finally swig down beers and ride each other without the banter feeling forced.

Now if only the remnants of that night would leave him...

Deep brain stimulation brought it back in all its hi-def gory glory, thank you very much.

He heaves a ragged sigh and slows his step. Somehow he has made it to his patient's room.

Through the window he spies the old lady, her arms crossed over her ample bosom as she lays under that blue hospital blanket. She wears a petulant pout; her eyes are slits of suspicion. Thirteen and Taub flank her on either side. Taub wears a look of ticked off semi-tolerance that House likes. It is a sign that with the right amount of goading the guy's temper could be set off like a Roman candle. One day House hopes to make this happen.

Thirteen is trying her best to be civil, smoothing the woman's pillows, talking to her in that earnest voice young doctors use when speaking to the elderly. But it doesn't soothe Mrs. A, and it doesn't fool House. That impish smile tells him Thirteen is getting some perverse joy out of aggravating her charge. There is a reason for her elation, he thinks. One day he will discover it and place it in his arsenal of secret weapons...to hold until needed. Until then he will not let on how much she gives away about herself just by doing her job.

He slides the door open with his cane, meanders noisily into the room, nearly upsetting a metal cart in the process. The old lady flinches and gives him a glare.

"I'm Doctor House," he announces.

"Oy, mein gott. You make such a _tumul."_

"Speak English, Sadie," House says, while checking the chart Taub hands him. "You're in America now."

Sadie hisses. Her pink cheeks turn purple. "You've got some nerve."

"You need to drink up. Give these kids a break."

"I don't drink that terrible _chuk," _she says, raising one pudgy finger. "You make it taste better, then I drink."

"According your chart you've been having trouble swallowing, which, in your case, isn't necessarily a bad thing."

"_Shmendrik,_" she croaks.

"She called you a fool." Kutner laments with a mournful shake of his head.

Sadie continues, "You could not be a real doctor, dressed in those _shmates_, speaking to your patient with such disrespect."

"_Shmates_ are rags," Kutner translates, leaning in closer to House.

"Enough with the _mishigas_, Sadie," House shakes a finger in her face. "You have difficulty swallowing and you have chest pains. Keep giving these guys trouble and you will have serious_ tsures._"

"Hmmph, for a _goyem_ you speak Yiddish with the devil's tongue."

"There's something to be said for having friends in low places," House says. "Gets me into all the best restaurants."

"House." Taub puts one calming hand up. "I think we can handle this-"

"Let me put this simply." Leaning over Sadie, House words are stiletto sharp. "If you don't do as you're told, you...will...die."

Silence.

"Give." House motions at Thirteen, then grabs the barium cocktail from her outstretched hand. The old lady stares, eyes wide with disbelief, her two chins trembling like a mountain before the avalanche.

"Drink up, _meshugine._ " House hands her the drink and stares her down. "Some of us have better things to do than listen to you whine."

"House--" Thirteen's cheeks are like two pink roses on a Sunday afternoon. The edges of her lips lift into a cagey little grin. "I think we're good."

House stays long enough to watch Sadie raise the drink to her lips and drain every drop. He turns on his heel without acknowledging his moment of conquest...

...or the fact that the victory hasn't eased his pain in the slightest.


	2. Adios

**-2-**

"**Adios"**

In his dream, he is seated with his hands folded in his lap. He is enjoying the ride, blissfully unaware of what is to follow. Still, the other part of his mind, the part that constantly surveys and observes and critiques, knows what is to come.

The awareness, this _knowing,_ is why dreams are so cool.

Behind him, there is a big noise, an explosion that hurts his ears and turns the world into a kaleidoscopic stew. He is thrust forward like a football hurled across Giants Stadium, flying, soaring. _Gone, gone...goodbye. _ It is not unpleasant. Nothing hurts. He doesn't feel the pain when he crash lands and the metal pole impales his (bad) thigh. It's all interesting. So is the fact that his kidneys are toast and he will very soon succumb to Amantadine poisoning. In his dream he knows this. He knows everything.

_You shouldn't have taken those pills_, _should have let that cold run its course,_ his fellow passengers lament as one, swirling over, up and around him. _Boy, ain't life a bitch? _They wear white robes over their jeans and t-shirts, dress shirts and khakis. As they serenade him, beads of scarlet fall like spring rain from their mouths, pattering gently against his motionless, battered form.

In the distance, sirens wail. Their whining goes on and on but those emergency vehicles never seem to get any closer.

Then, just like in the movies, the scene shifts...

Amber and Wilson stand over him in the ICU as he feels his vitals shut down, life support clicks, whirs...then stops. Liver and kidneys go bye, bye. Heartbeat slows..._ba dump...ba...dump._

_It's not so bad_, he thinks from the outside looking in. Amber is sobbing. Wilson tells her not to because everything is good.

_Stay with me..._

Now there are no more choices to make, no more troublesome intrusions to interrupt the flow of their world...

_no more._

"She knows you're here."

He grunts, jerking and flailing, like he is once more in the throes of a deep brain stimulated seizure. But it's just the dream. He knows this. So does Wilson, who observes him calmly from the throne behind his desk. It takes moments, a few deep breaths and a ten count to totally escape the dream. _That _dream. The one that is as much a part of him as his cane, his Vicodin, and his scar. What will happen when that dream ensnares him for good, when it takes the place of what is? His heart races like the lead car at Indy.

_Stop_. The voice in his head is commanding yet concerned. _Take stock of the situation. _

He shifts, winces. The arm of Wilson's sofa has never been much of a pillow. The muscles in the back of his neck have bunched up. His lower spine aches.

"You can either go see her in fifteen minutes or hide out somewhere else," Wilson is not at all sympathetic to House's plight. At least not on the surface. Beneath that cool gaze of derision, there is sympathy and tenderness and empathy. House knows they're there. Like files hidden away in a hard drive, they're simply not as easy to access as they once were.

"You _told _her." House pushes himself to a sitting position, groaning as he leans forward and holds his head in his hands.

"I didn't have much of a choice."

"You always have a choice," House mutters.

"Not when she catches me in _your _office with _my _patient."

"See?" House raises one hand to emphasize his point. "That was your first mistake,"

"What, meeting my patient in your office? I couldn't very well conduct a consult here, Not with you snoring and moaning and--"

"Letting her catch you was your first mistake," House says quietly, gazing at his sneakers. "You used to be an excellent sneak. You've lost your touch..."

"You make everything more difficult than it has to be, House." Wilson shakes his head, shuffles papers that probably didn't need shuffling. "You haven't learned a thing from all the crap you've been through. That's extraordinarily sad."

"I learned it's more fun to take my chances with Cuddy, than stick around and be bombarded with rhetoric from you." He pushes himself off the sofa, snags his cane from where it waits by the bookcase. "You'll be a hardass from now until the next time I get you drunk. At least with Cuddy I can use the old sweet talk to wheedle my way into her good graces. Her thong won't be in a twist for long."

Wilson raises his brows. "You should know better than to assume."

"I never assume." House throws him a weak grin. "I just know."

"You overstepped your bounds this time, telling Mrs. Abramowitz she's going to die."

"It got her to drink up, didn't it?"

"You don't have a clue, do you?" Wilson shakes his head slowly, tapping his pen against his blotter in a staccato rhythm.

"I know she's given a mint of money to the hospital," House says, "I know Cuddy wants to kiss her wrinkled ass."

"So if you knew these things-"

"Read my lips." House's voice is suddenly loud enough to be heard across the hall. "I. Don't. Care."

Wilson scoffs, twiddles the pen between two fingers. "How can you so quickly forget what really counts?"

House pauses by the door. He lowers his head, throws Wilson a look. Suddenly his bravado slips off him like a snake shedding skin.

"Life can change in minutes, House. Seconds." Wilson says. "But you know that."

"If you have a point, make it quick. I have a date with uncertain peril."

Crossing his arms, Wilson leans back in his chair. The victor. "I thought you didn't care."

"I sense there might be fresh teeth marks in my butt by the end of the day. It's better to be prepared for such things." He knocks the tip of his cane against the door jamb. "Tell me what she has in mind."

"Oooh," Wilson chuckles. "Where would the fun be in that?"

"I hate it when you're obtuse. And another thing--you used to enable me a hell of a lot more."

Wilson's loses his grin. "Guess you'll just have to face Cuddy." After checking his watch, he rests his chin on his hand. "She should be back in her office by now."

_Something's really wrong this time, _House thinks, making his way out the door and down that long, long corridor. _This time it might not be so easy to dance around the flames without getting his balls singed in the process._

_

* * *

_His presence does not inspire her to put the phone down. She doesn't look up, drop her pen or seem the least bit annoyed. She just goes on like he's not even there. A wisp of hair falls in her eyes. This she tends to, switching the phone from right hand to left to more easily brush back the stray tress. In the process, he meets her eyes. Nothing there. Not anger, not sadness, not a hint that there are fightin' words waiting in the wings.

He leans hard on his cane as butterflies are set free in his gut, traveling from his large intestine to his small. There they flit and flutter, tickling the duodenum, jejunum and ileum until all he can do to ease his consternation is take a seat across from her and wait.

Five minutes tick by before he thinks of doing something wicked. But Cuddy is aware of the limits of his patience. She hangs up the phone the very moment he considers dumping the contents of her pen cup on her desk.

"Why am I here?" he asks. "You're interrupting the flow of my day."

"No I'm not."

"I have a case."

"Not any more. Mrs. Abramowitz wants nothing more to do with you and I can't say I blame her."

"Hmmph," he grunts, only slightly miffed. "Her loss."

Folding her hands on her desk, Cuddy leans forward.

_(the better to see those peaks and valleys, my dear)_

"As of this moment, you're on vacation."

Stunned, he gapes at her. He was expecting some yelling, a few choice obscenities they might bat back and forth like tennis balls. Not this.

"No, thanks," he says after finding his voice.

"You don't have a choice in the matter," she says in that curt tone that tells him she's not open to any slick, smart barbs in his arsenal he might be readying.

"What's this about?"

"You need a break." Sparks wink and die in her eyes. "It's been a hard year for you."

He rises from the chair. Paces before the desk. One-two-three, one-two-three. After a moment he stops to give her a hard look. "When I want a vacation I'll ask for one."

"The point is, you never will." She points the nub of a pencil at him. "This way, you'll be forced to have some down time. Get some rest."

"I get more than my share here."

"I wish you had indulged yourself in some of that down time instead of harassing Mrs. Abramowitz."

"She's a pain in the ass and you know it. John Lennon's dead and Sadie Abramowitz lives on," he grouses. "Where's the fairness in that?"

"At five-o-clock you are officially out of here for two weeks." Lifting one perfectly plucked brow, she adds, "That is all."

He cocks his head, thinks about it. Two weeks seems like an eternity. He wonders how he might fill that time without succumbing to alcohol poisoning or a monumental case of eye strain from TV overload. The thought of a hooker a day makes him warm and happy for a moment. Then he decides he wouldn't really enjoy those strange, fragrant women traipsing in and out of his apartment each day for a fortnight. Once they're in his bed it's fine, It's the small talk, the bathroom break, the deal making that unnerves him and makes him want reach for the bourbon or the scotch. Or both.

Ambling to the door, he tells her, "You're killing me, you know that."

"It's not my intent. And you know _that_," she says.

He wants to say 'I hate you'. He truly does.

But for some reason he can't.

* * *

Before heading to his office, he makes a stop at the cafeteria to buy a cup of sustenance: coffee, black, heavy on the caffeine, double up the sugar.

He wanders through the halls with his steaming cup, feeling like a Jack in the discard pile of a poker game. A high card that's unwanted and unneeded.

Useless.

(_where's the fairness in that?)_

When he arrives at his office, Kutner is just leaving. He throws House a guilty, goofy grin, averting his gaze as he tries to make a break for it, to escape to the safety of...somewhere.

"No can do, buckaroo." House bars Kutner's way with his cane. The odd looks he gets from the healthcare professionals and inmates passing by do nothing to distract him from his 'person of interest'.

"Gotta go, House."

"What were you doing in my office?" He could have sworn he locked the door. Kutner must have wheedled the spare set of keys off Foreman.

"I...had something for you."

"Letter bomb?"

"No."

"Anthrax du jour?"

"No!"

"Then why didn't you just give it to me?

Kutner offers him a sheepish look, twisting one heel against the linoleum. "I wasn't sure what kind of mood you'd be in after you got the word."

"So you knew."

"We only just heard," he says. "Cuddy told Foreman, Foreman told-"

"Where is it?" House swigs the remainder of his coffee, glares at the dregs, then thrusts the cup at Kutner, who takes it from him.

"It's...on your desk." Raising one brow, Kutner walks to the door, crumpling the cup as he goes. "I'll show you."

"I don't need you to show me what's on my desk." House nudges him out of the way, shoulders open the door.

"I just wanted to explain-"

"Explain how you and the rest of the fab four are going to get through the next two weeks without me."

Kutner raises one hand slowly. "If you have any questions--

"Go away. Now."

* * *

House doesn't like vacations. Their temporary respite from the familiar holds no fascination for him. A Saturday spent at an off track betting parlor or a night at the local pub are sufficient breaks from the norm. His piano, the internet, his journals and TV give him access to what's going on out there. No reason to spend money, time and energy on what he can procure with the click of a button or a turn of a page.

He has experienced enough of the big wide world; it was handed to him from the time he was very young. It's not his fault he's jaded. To most people, traveling the world is exciting and enlightening.

He is not 'most people'.

Growing up a military brat, his world held the constant promise of a 'change of scene'. Today Okinawa, next week Cairo. His friends were other military brats he played ball with for three or six months until it was time to move on again.

He was never one to keep in touch, even though his mother encouraged him to do so. The idea of having Tommy or Herbie or Jed as 'pen pals' was ludicrous. He never held any of them in high regard. Besides, what scintillating prose could he send their way? _Yeah, Quantico is hot as a witch's tit this time of year. _

No, he never cared for vacations, and was glad when his traveling days were through. When his father retired and the three of them moved to the white picket fence world of Eldridge, Ohio, teenage Greg settled in quickly. He involved himself in high school lacrosse, played in a band, lost his virginity, showed off his smarts, let his hair curl over his collar. Slowly he became a rebel, irritating his teachers, worrying his mother, causing his father to pour on the physical and verbal abuse even more...

He doesn't want to think about this now. So he sits, moves his thumb along the head of his cane and frowns at what Kutner has left on his desk.

"_The Road Less Traveled: Premiere Issue!"_

The magazine is rife with Post-It notes scrawled in Kutner's swooping hand. _("Read this!" or "You might want to check this out!")._

Those pastel colored slips of paper fly every which way as House flips through the pages. Nothing here for him. He has no use for any of it and is about to toss the magazine and the blasted notes into the trash.

The classified section dissuades him. He likes classifieds. Sometimes they're provocative. Sometimes they're amusing. Women seeking women for travel companions.

_Sure._

Men searching for travel companions of either sex.

_Double your pleasure._

Yes, House enjoys the classifieds. Maybe that's what he'll do: spend two weeks reading classified ads. They're proof that there are still unique, interesting people walking around out there, and the best part will be that he won't have to meet any of them.

"_**It's Not What You Think"**_

His eyes land on the ad in the lower right hand corner of the page. He takes in the 800 number, scoffs at the challenge.

"**Not many have what it takes to be part of what we do. What we offer is not so much a vacation as a total lifestyle change. But it's not what you might think. You have no idea. You are curious. You will call the number. You will see if you are fit to play the part.**

**You will not be sorry."**

_Bullshit, _House thinks as he tosses the magazine into the wastebasket. He leans his elbows on his desk, rests his head in his hands and closes his eyes. Music drifts in from somewhere. _Brahms_. He hums the melody. _Third symphony._

When he opens his eyes again, the office is silent. The scent of hospital food makes him wrinkle his nose in distaste. Dinner time at the old homestead. The clock on the wall informs him it's five-fifty. He should have been out of here already. Banished, he thinks, reaching under his desk, letting his hand rifle through the wastebasket. The magazine finds his hand, allows it to be lifted out of its dank metal canister.

It doesn't take long to find the ad...

**You will not be sorry.**

...to rip it out, tuck in into his jacket pocket before saying adios to this little corner of the world for awhile.


	3. Limbo

**-3-**

"**Limbo"**

There are times he thinks about limbo: not the inane backbreaking dance he was forced to do at parties as a kid, but the pit stop between life and death.

Limbo is his old stomping ground. House knows the ins and outs of it, its nooks and crannies, its hidey holes. The thought of the place unnerves him, since he is able to recall it with unsettling clarity.

In this case, familiarity sure as hell does breed contempt.

He hates all of it: the whiteness, the conversations with the dead: those he knew when they were flesh and blood, others who, in all likelihood, never really existed. When he is there, his honesty knows no bounds. In limbo, he spills stuff he knows he should repress: those maudlin meanderings of regret, self pity, and self loathing, revelations that don't stand a chance of getting by him in the real world.

But...there _is_ something liberating about letting go.

He thinks about limbo when he is with Wilson, when they're sitting side by side at a bar, nursing drinks, getting a buzz on so the laughter comes easy. House tries to convince himself the laughter would come just as easy without the alcohol, but he's not so sure that's true.

So they sit, drink, laugh over something that's not very funny, after which they will go back to House's apartment. There they will watch a movie or perhaps listen to some vintage jazz albums House found at The Vinyl Vendor this week.

It's all very nice, very friendly. Very bland. Very safe.

It has been a little over a year since Amber died. These days, House makes it a point not to talk about her, but when she crosses Wilson's mind, House can tell: Wilson's gaze grows distant, like he is peering into the fog to see what is drifting through it. House doesn't want to go there, so he ignores it, doesn't broach the subject at all. Amber is like a scar that aches when a storm's brewing. Much to his chagrin, House feels that ache too...

Wilson has a new woman in his life. Her name is Roselle or Rosette or some moronic flowery name; she's an English teacher at Mercer County Community College. House has yet to meet her. He hasn't asked and Wilson hasn't offered. He can't help wonder why Wilson is devoting his time to a woman who teaches lame brains the difference between a comma and a semi-colon; a woman who is the single parent of a four year old.

He wonders.

The question stands between them like a silent sentry, waiting to be deployed on a mission. But House will never ask. He doesn't need to know more about this woman than he already does.

Limbo...

The taste of pizza and beer linger on the back of House's tongue as he settles into the passenger seat (pushed back far enough so he can stretch his legs. Wilson is nothing if not thoughtful). House will close his eyes, lean his head against the coolness of the window and let the smooth jazz Wilson adores wash over him.

Although Wilson's blood alcohol level is sure to be over the legal limit, House lets him drive. An inebriated Wilson is a better driver than a booze soaked House. They arrive back at House's place intact, like all the other times.

Now Wilson is half-asleep on the sofa, the strains of John Lee Hooker's "I'm Bad Like Jesse James" serve as the soundtrack to another evening winding down.

Wilson yawns, coughs, then clears his throat. "So what are you going to do?" He gazes at House through heavy lidded eyes.

"About what?" House takes his place beside Wilson, finds the TV remote between the sofa cushions and scrolls the list of treasures his Tivo has to offer.

"You have all this time, House."

"Yeah, it's a bitch, isn't it?" Tivo fare proves boring so he puts the ten o'clock news on mute and taps his foot along with John Lee.

"Most people are ecstatic not to have to get up for work in the morning."

"It's usually closer to the afternoon for me."

With a grunt, Wilson tries again. "You should be thrilled about getting some time for yourself. Didn't you even think about _doing_ something with it?"

"Like what?"

"Something-" Wilson gestures helplessly at the TV, the bedroom, the walls. "Something other than staring at this for two weeks."

"It's all mine." The record ends, thrusting them into silence. House turns up the TV. The busty, toothsome newscaster regales them with bedtime tales of murder and mayhem. "I can stare at it, kick it, curse at it." Raising a brow, he concludes, "You're just jealous."

"I am. It's always been my dream to have hours and hours to abuse my hard won property."

"Sorry. Cuddy still wants _you_ around. Come up with a way to tick her off so you can join the party." House leans back, flicks the channel to ESPN. "In the meantime, think of me languishing like a sloth while you're cooing sweet nothings to one of your pathetic, tumor riddled-"

"Enough, House." Wilson pushes himself off the couch and presses one palm against the small of his back as he stretches. "This was swell. It's a shame it has to end."

House fingers the remote, tilts his head and stares at the beer bottle as Wilson walks to the door. "You off to see Rosalita?"

After a long moment, Wilson replies, "Her name is Rosa." His tone is guarded, hushed, as if to speak louder might cause the walls to crumble into dusty piles of rubble.

House hears the door open, then softly snick shut. He crosses the room, pulls a bottle of bourbon from the cabinet by the bookshelf, throws off the cap and takes one swig. Then another.

On the TV, the meteorologist is gushing about the wonder of fall foliage.

_(orange and yellow and red, oh, my)_

It is the ass end of September in Princeton, New Jersey, a town which, as the four-eyed, balding meteorologist is sure to know, is located in the northeast portion of the United States. What the hell is so fascinating about witnessing the onset of fall foliage in this part of the world? House grumbles as he heads toward the desk. If this were Florida or southern California it might be something to wet your pants about. But here?

He reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out the crumpled magazine page he shoved in there over six hours ago. As he smoothes it out on his desk, he wonders why he bothered saving it.

"_**Not many have what it takes to be a part of what we do..."**_

The letters swim before his eyes before settling in all comfy cozy again. This is significant, he thinks. It lets him in on the fact he is more than half in the bag. Three quarters of the way in is more like it. The Vicodin/bourbon/beer combo make a potent team, putting him out for the count most nights. Tonight he's just...high.

His smile seems too wide. The room shifts, like it is a hovercraft drifting over the streets of Jersey.

That's funny.

_**...it's not what you might think...you have no idea...**_

_Those words are screaming at you, if they had tiny fists they might box your ears too-- _

Scam artists. Snakeoil salesmen. With one hand he steadies himself against the desk and reaches for the phone.

_**...you will not be sorry...**_

_Oh, yeah? Oh, YEAH?_

It is a challenge, like a boxer flexing by the ropes, dancing, feinting, turning slowly to meet his eyes.

_I will be sorry. Damn! Wait for it because I will soon be the sorriest asshole on this planet._

Yeah. He punches in the number, listens to the purr of the ring, waits for some generic voice on an answering machine to pick up.

Instead he gets a human. "This is Garrett," The human croons. "How can I help you?"

* * *

As Wilson steps through the door, he lifts his head and...inhales, savoring the fragrant remnants of what was sure to have been an excellent meal. It is late, after eleven, and those scents are ghosts, specters, wisps of what was. Dinner had been prepared hours ago (a roast of some sort, he guesses).

_All gone_, _me bucko,_ House whispers in his head.

Still, the thought of that luscious fare taunts him like a harlot with a body to die for, a tantalizing siren writhing and gyrating just out of reach.

While he was busy getting buzzed and finding all the ways to avoid talking about this 'new' life, Rosa was fixing dinner.

And Rosa is a damn fine cook.

She would have tucked the leftovers in foil wrap and Tupperware, setting them neatly on the second shelf of the fridge. He could have them for lunch tomorrow. It wouldn't be as homey as enjoying a companionable dinner with her and Mike. But it would be okay.

As long as House isn't involved, it will be fine.

Wilson steps furtively, quietly through the shadow strewn rooms. He feels guilty, almost like a thief. There is no reason for this, he knows. But the feeling grabs on and holds tight.

Rosa left lights on for him; there is just enough illumination for him to find his way through the spacious abode without falling over something, He flicks each light off as he passes: the one by the piano, the one over the kitchen sink, the gooseneck lamp on the table in the hall. Each one leads him closer to her.

Pausing outside Michael's door, he listens for a breath, a sigh. Wilson likes the boy but doesn't feel he has the right to play dad. He wouldn't mind, but the thought is too huge to contemplate right now. Maybe the day he moves out of what used to be Amber's apartment and takes up residence here he will be more comfortable with the notion. Maybe then he will try sitting on the floor with the kid, play cars and Playstation and robots.

The whole relationship is new, shiny, the glitter wrap still poking out of the wastebasket...

In the bedroom (which is almost 'their' bedroom, but not quite), Rosa lays sleeping, _The Dictionary of Classic Mythology_ lies open beside her. She is an avid reader of non-fiction. She wants to learn, to better herself. Eventually she would like to return to school for her doctorate. It is her goal and Wilson encourages her.

It's good to have goals, he tells her.

Rosa's eyes flutter open. Her smile is slow, unguarded, and genuine. ""Hey, how was your night?"

"It was...a night." Wilson shrugs, unbuttons his top two buttons, allowing his gaze to flow over her. Her dark curls fall over her cheeks and brow; she looks like a little girl waking from a dream of princes and knights. Sometimes he wishes she would let her hair grow longer; he imagines it flowing over her shoulders and breasts, like a river. He doesn't tell her this because she would probably do it. To please him. He doesn't want that. He wants it to come from her.

He touches her cheek.

"How about you?" he asks.

"Long day. It's over now." She leans on one elbow and twists his third shirt button open. ""Did you eat?"

"Pizza, beer. Usual House fare."

"How is he?"

"Does it matter?"

She sets the book on the nightstand, crosses her arms over her t-shirt. "Of course it matters."

"He's on vacation," Wilson says. "Not by choice."

"Sounds serious." Her eyes twinkle.

He's seen that look before when the conversation shifts to House. How does House manage to inspire that sort of intense curiosity when he's not even here?

Wilson has long since tired of it. "I told you he has nothing to do with us."

"You've met my friends."

Shifting closer, he takes her face in his hands. "I told you before. This is for the best."

"Okay." She nods. "Okay."

He removes his shirt, unbuckles his belt. "He's poison, Rosa." Three failed marriages and one dead girlfriend later, Wilson has learned to keep House out of the mix. "If you really want to know more than that, we can devote an evening to explanations. Otherwise just trust me. This is for the best."

"Fine."

He smiles. "Turn off the light," he whispers, gazing down at her. As she reaches for the lamp, his smile fades. Silently he curses the lingering curiosity still so prevalent, so alive,in Rosa's pretty eyes.


	4. Anticipate

**-4-**

"**Anticipate"**

His first instinct is to hang up. He is too high to be coherent; his tongue feels like it is swathed in cotton wool. He hasn't prepared himself to speak, so he stands with his mouth open, gawping at his computer screen and the letter opener beside it that is shaped like a shark's snout. The shark's one eye is dark, shiny, staring at him, waiting for a coherent thought to take shape.

He almost expects it to blink.

House mutters something. A voicemail should have picked up. It might have supplied him with some basic information and given him the option to leave his name and number after the beep. If the offer was truly asinine House might have left Wilson's number, or if he was feeling truly wicked, he would have recited Cuddy's number in a clear, crisp tone-

"Don't be afraid."

Garrett's reassuring voice jerks House from his reverie.

"We don't bite." The guy at the other end of the phone chuckles. Where is this Garrett, where might he be? Albania, Scotland, Alburquerque?

"You there?" Garrett asks.

"That's a good question."

Garrett chuckles again. It doesn't seem to take much to amuse him. "How can I help you, Mr.-"

"You threw me a challenge."

"A challenge."

"Your ad was extremely confrontational," The thick haze of intoxication has thinned to a wispy cloud cover. '_You are curious_'. '_You will call the number_'."

"And here you are..."

A niggle of something, annoyance mixed with sparkler sprays of anger, assaults House before he manages to continue. "You've assured me that I will not be sorry."

On the other end of the line Garrett is laughing heartily now. "Well," he says, between a few residual huffs of amusement, "I suppose that remains to be seen."

"I'm interested," Lifting the letter opener by the snout, House squints into the single beady eye. "Give me the scoop."

"We're offering an opportunity for you to be on the cutting edge of something truly unique."

"That's too abstract," House says. "What are you selling? Astral travel? Amway? Scientology? Time shares in Bolivia?"

"None of the above." House hears Garrett's chair squeak. He assumes the man has leaned forward to go for the jugular. Perhaps Garrett's interest is as sharp as his own.

"I'm selling...the ultimate getaway," Garrett breathes, causing the hair on the back of House's neck to stand at attention.

_Calm yourself, fool. _

Garrett is either a keeper of a great secret or a large economy size jar of horse shit.

House sways against the desk, suddenly disoriented. He mutters something drunken and incoherent into the phone, then remembers the shark snout letter opener is in his other hand and grips it tighter. The black eye presses into his palm as he staggers toward the sofa and his cane and the empty beer bottle.

"My offer is free but it is not open to everyone," Garrett is saying. "You will need to apply and then be accepted by the committee and then-

"Nothing's free, Garrett."

"You'd be surprised what you might gain by showing a little faith."

"You answered the phone kind of late, which means you're a little desperate for customers."

"A special kind of customer. Like I said, we're not looking for just anyone."

"That's what they all say. Good telemarketing strategy. Make your mark feel loved, wanted, indispensable." House stretches out on the sofa. The TV is on mute. Jay Leno silently jabbers, gesticulating with one hand as strolls the width of the stage. He could be a puppet, a dancing, chortling marionette. "You haven't asked my name, Garret. So either you know more about me than your caller ID tells you, you're a great cold reader...or it's something else."

"You have a gift for observation."

"Shucks, I'll bet you give that spiel to all your prospective guinea pigs," House lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Give me the scoop on this rabbit hole you're trying to shove me down."

"We cater to the sort of person who is more likely to consider our offer moments before sleep." Garrett's voice is gentle persuasion and empathy rolled into a shiny silver ball. "Those moments when your mind frees itself of all perfunctory thoughts and considers what is really important. What is it you were never able to accomplish? What sort of regrets plague you without you're even knowing it?"

"Are you _sure_ you're not from Amway?"

"A successful, yet lonely professional," Garrett continues. "A person with more than a few regrets, someone willing to take a rest break from everything. To take a chance..." A glass clinks, a drink is swallowed. "Does this sound like you?"

"What sort of chance?" House lays the letter opener on the coffee table, making sure the shark's snout is facing him. He stretches one hand behind his head and closes his eyes.

"What would you think about filling out an application? I can email it to you now. There will be some basic, explanatory notes attached."

"What do you call this den of thieves you're pimping?"

"It's good to be wary," Garrett says. "It's even better to be curious."

"Answer the question or I go away."

"Very good." It is easy to catch the knowing smirk in Garrett's tone. "I work for a group of investors and technicians who call themselves the committee. Their project is cutting edge, groundbreaking. But they desperately need people like yourself, the intellectually upscale, the curious, those with an open mind, to give this a try in order for it to work."

"Do you offer silver pyramid party hats?" House asks. "All the best new age Scientology, alien worshippers do."

"I understand your skepticism," Garrett says. "But in a few years you and everyone else of your ilk will be clamoring to experience what I am offering you now."

"How do you know my ilk?" House grouses. "Besides my name on your caller ID and a few piddling facts you might pick up about me online-"

"Ahhh, never assume...Doctor...House." Garrett laughs, "You'd be very surprised."

House considers hanging up, making his way to bed. But he knows that the not knowing will cause his sleep to be fitful and dream-filled, in spite of the booze and pills cavorting through his bloodstream.

_What if, what if...what have I done?_

For some reason, the notion hits him that this is a one time offer, that to refuse now, then call back at a 'normal' hour will get him that voicemail, the generic response he expected in the first place.

With a nonchalance belying a growing, gut churning anticipation, House rattles off his email address. After repeating it back twice, Garrett bids House a jovial 'be seeing you' before clicking off.

A musical ensemble has taken over the Tonight Show stage: two spiky-haired guys with guitars accompany a girl playing bongos. Could be interesting, could be really lame. House's mind is too caught up with Garrett and the strange promise of that phone call to investigate further. His hopeful gaze flicks toward the PC across the room, as though it might begin to jiggle in place, its keys clickety-clacking in wild abandon as Garrett's email flows through the wires.

* * *

The apartment is comfortable now, more comfortable than the sweltering sweat box he had been forced to endure over the past week. One air conditioner in the bedroom hadn't cut it. If the committee hadn't obliged him by putting additional units in the living room and this office, he might have said adios to this job and passed the position on to the next worthy candidate.

The committee hadn't let that happen. No surprise there.

The TV in the corner is set to mute. The Tonight Show is halfway over and Garrett figures he hasn't missed much. The guitarists and the bongo player hold no fascination for him and Garrett's not a Leno fan. Marcia put it on, then left the room. Her way of informing him how late it is. Typical.

His attention switches back to the PC on his desk and thoughts of the project and the damned committee. Bitching about expenses and pinching every nickel and dime is what the committee does best. The main office in New Mexico is a sparse, depressing affair with bland white cubicles, wisp thin gray carpet, and the buzz of window fans providing the dreary soundtrack to the work day. It was as they liked it. But they promised that if..._when _the project went into the black, there would be a load of sweet amenities and incentives in the offing for those smart enough to stick around. For now they needed to cut corners wherever they could, pour every bit of funding into the heart of the Great and Wonderful plan.

Certain exceptions would be made for Garrett; he was hired for his proficiency and expertise. They needed him more than he needed them; at least that's what he tells himself.

September is supposed to be when that cool weather hits the east coast. This is what he was led to believe. But today had been disgustingly humid with spritzes of rain and ominous rolls of thunder from the west.

Perhaps somebody is trying to tell him something.

No matter. He sips his Perrier with lime, eyes the inbox of his mail client and waits for the response which will most likely bring the committee a new citizen. It is kind of beautiful, this anticipation, almost like awaiting a birth. A new life.

Garrett's new prospect is not (as the very observant doctor himself surmised) a total mystery. The moment he rang in, the computer spewed out the basics. Gregory House, forty-eight years old, Head of Diagnostics at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. The intriguing facts appeared on Garrett's monitor, one by one by one, as the conversation drifted along to its inevitable conclusion.

When Dr. House returns his completed application, his responses will be analyzed by programs the committee's techs have created exclusively for the hunt.

A doctor. They need a doctor in Pleasant Hills.

From the corner of his eye, Garrett sees Jay thanking his guests. The show was history when it aired, since they taped it five or six hours ago. That was then and _this_, he muses happily as the email he has been waiting for arrives...

This is now.


	5. Uncharted

**-5-**

"**Uncharted"**

His first thought of the day is of House. Before he even wonders about the weather, considers the unfortunate results of Mr. Eisenstern's colonoscopy or turns over on his pillow to look at the still sleeping Rosa, he thinks about House.

Something is wrong with that. But that's the way it's been for the last fifteen years. The only difference is now Wilson feels more than sorry about it than apathetic. Anger also finds its way into the mix. It's as if House is a criminal, leeching precious minutes from Wilson's life, the same flippant way he steals half a sandwich from Wilson's lunch tray.

Being angry with House isn't anything new.

The only good thing is that nobody needs to know. Wilson can keep a good face on, keep this to himself, and no one will be the wiser.

Rosa wakes, smiles that sunny, sleepy smile at him.

He returns the grin, kisses her good morning while wondering what House might be doing right now.

* * *

It seems every traffic light is dead set against him this morning: an overload of stop, go, stop, go. The radio offers nothing but morning drive-time chatter, risque barbs about politicians and movie stars, a call in to win contest for a facial at Dominique's Salon in beautiful downtown Princeton.

He taps one finger against the steering wheel and wonders for the tenth time that morning what House might be doing. Sleeping? Maybe, if his leg isn't giving him a problem. More than likely he's dragging his ass off to bed after a night of TV, bourbon and pills.

The man is a creature of habit and being wrenched from the old routine could mean trouble. If boredom strikes hard, House might do something totally off the wall, maybe buy a rifle and a hunting license and go off into the woods, forget to wear one of those bright orange vests...

_The thought is totally ludicrous. House never expressed the slightest interest in hunting..._

_..._which is exactly why he might do it. New, interesting, uncharted territory.

_Why do you care?_

He might go out on a fishing boat, get ossified on beer and tumble overboard.

_He's a big boy. Stop worrying. Why do you care?_

It's a good question, a logical one. Wilson supposes Cuddy did the right thing by sending House away for two weeks. It was obvious House's recklessness with patients and his snappish, more brutal than usual attitude was putting a strain on everyone. Last week, he made Nurse Billings cry...

With a sigh, Wilson steers the Volvo into the hospital parking lot. His eyes automatically flick toward House's vacant space. Three yellow leaves dance and swirl in that spot before being carried off by the breeze.

Wilson knows he should get to his office. There is work to be done, appointments to keep, but magically, mystically, his cellphone appears in his hand. House's number is highlighted on his contacts list. He pushes the 'call' key, hears the burr of the phone on the other end, then the curt, almost sinister sounding voice that informs him he is 'shit out of luck today, Greg House has gone away...'

Wilson decides he hates voicemail and, at this moment, phones in general.

No sense worrying, Wilson tells himself...again, making his way into the building. There are more important things to mull over besides House's welfare. But standing in the rear of the elevator, watching the doors close, he can't seem to think of one.

* * *

Acceptance actually feels good. House doesn't make it a habit of worrying what people think of him. But the committee's yay vote had been important. No, more than important, it had been crucial.

It came through thirty minutes after he had emailed the application back to Garrett.

And just like that...he was _in!_

_In what? _The letter accompanying the application was vague, telling him next to nothing. Lots of rhetoric, very little facts.

Garrett promised to explain.

_And this matters...because?_

Like Garrett, the application was a half cooked goulash of the straightforward and obtuse. It asked for Name, Address, Phone number, it also asked what the applicant might do in certain situations (_Would you turn in the billfold with the thousand dollars you found on the library steps? Hell, no). _The information would be gathered and analyzed, then used to help figure where best to send him: a place most suited to his personality and ideals.

_Ooookay..._

It was a game. But no matter what, it wasn't work; it wasn't dealing with clinic hours or the inanities that accompanied diagnosing an illness. This was a puzzle of another sort. And, yeah, it was mad interesting.

He drives through midtown Manhattan this Tuesday morning. Rush hour is almost history. Still, traffic flow is slow; cabbies take chances, cutting him off as he tries to switch lanes. Ordinarily this would piss him off, but today he is on a mission and wants to get where he is going with a minimum of fuss. He doesn't need an altercation to ruin his day.

What is Wilson doing now? House can't help wondering as another red light hampers his progress. Wilson. He would be at work, of course, setting the course of his day according to other people's whims and schedules. It is intriguing that Wilson found the time to ring House's cell earlier. Maybe he's wondering too. For a moment, House considers returning the call, then thinks better of it. Let Wilson stew for awhile.

Traffic moves again. House is headed downtown, way downtown, past Mulberry and Mott Streets. Down here the sidewalks are teeming: tourists meander with cash in their pockets, eager to spend it on Louis Vuitton knock-offs and bargain bling. Impressing their friends is going to be easy when they head back to Ohio, or Minnesota, or whatever suburban hole they slithered from.

Little Richard is hollering the praises of _Tutti Fruitti _through the front and rear speakers of House's heap. _Woooo! _ Today House has opted for raucous old rock and roll rather than the lowdown blues which are usually his pleasure. The music joins with the bright mystery and the Not Knowing of this day to make his heart pound a lively tattoo against his ribs.

_Down, down, down. _The traffic has thinned; the buildings here are way older than he is, their faded bricks and rusted fire escapes are artifacts from another age. He spies an elderly woman sitting on a stoop, her knitting needles work together but there is no scarf or winter cap between its tips. Hell, there isn't even any yarn.

He grimaces, shaking his head, amused and repulsed at the same time. Whoever professed that crazy is the new normal might have had the right idea.

He drives on until he finds the corner of Essex and Maitland. Slowing, he turns the corner and sees Tony's Records in the center of the block, just as Garrett promised. Parking is easy and free in front of the shop. The sole other vehicle is a tan Mustang with California plates, its bumper dented and scraped. A ruined classic. _Too bad._

Moving from his car, he leans hard against his cane and ambles around in a circle, attempting to get the blood circulating in his legs again after the nearly interminable drive.

Tony's seems to be the only game in town, at least in_ this_ part of town. The shop is a tan brick structure flanked on either side by two vacant storefronts. How much business could the guy possibly do?

_Well, you're here. Garrett sent you. _Tony's front window shines. Recordings from a thousand years ago make up the display: Louis Armstrong, Pat Boone (!), Doris Day. The records are vintage but the jackets' still have a newish gloss, the corners are sharp.

_Why a record shop; why not a travel agency? Interesting._

He paces, not wanting to go in just yet. Hand in pocket, he stares across the street at the vacant lot filled with with crushed soda cans, burger wrappers, rust mottled car parts, and miscellaneous crap that looks like remnants of an alien spacecraft.

A towering graffiti riddled fence overlooks the lot; the graffiti is striking, bold and dramatic, all curlicues and balloon letters (TAZ MANIA Z! LITTLE BOY SCREW-UP!). Beyond this is the unmistakable whoosh of traffic, cars and trucks and buses rushing off to somewhere. The noise nearly drowns out the big band music pouring from the speakers in front of Tony's.

The sky is strange. It seems too bright, too perfect: as cloudless, blue and pure as a Bermudian sea. But a warm, sultry breeze ruffles his hair, assuring him everything is as it should be.

An 800 number and a voice on the phone brought him here, and maybe that's wrong.

_Everything is as it should be..._

Maybe he shouldn't be here. He doesn't trust. Nothing's for free. These thoughts are a whirlwind, challenging him, daring him. His heart triphammers; his temples pound, his breath hitches in his chest.

_This is...this is..._

...more than just interesting now, the whole thing is mindblowing, disturbing...surreal. Whipping around, he squints at the display window again: Tony Bennett and Frank Sinatra have replaced Louis, Pat and Doris as the picks to click.

He considers taking refuge in his car and speeding away from this place. But the intrigue is too delicious. Sinatra is crooning "My Funny Valentine". The window shimmers, the album jackets change again: Rosemary Clooney, Glenn Miller...

Not his kind of stuff, really, but oh, so cool.

His feet are leading him to the door. He imagines stepping inside, getting thwacked on the head and carted off somewhere, never to be seen again.

_You're an ass. You're losing it._

The wind picks up, playing at the nape of his neck, his cheeks, his brow. Warm. He takes one last look at his car that waits for him, a loyal, patient friend, more giving than most of the people he knows.

Wilson wouldn't go in that shop.

_Wilson's a candyass, a wuss._

Wilson is...careful.

_Make a decision. Now. _

House crosses the parking lot and grabs the door handle. He pulls with more force than he has to, stepping quickly inside before he can change his mind.


	6. Experiment

**-6-**

"**Experiment"**

The day couldn't get much better. Dr. House is on time, which leads Garrett to believe there are positive forces at work in the universe. When the process rolls along smoothly it pleases the committee. For Garrett, this is on par with winning the World Series of Poker (a feat he has come close to achieving two years in a row).

He has not always been good at his job. His choices have not always been ones to put him in good stead with Irie. But he is a quick study and has come a long way from his post as a government research assistant. Through networking, fortitude and seventeen hour workdays he has managed to become an integral member of the team, a shining star in the committee's eye. He is proud of how his savvy and his eye for detail convinced them to let him in on the ground floor of the Getaway project.

This is still so new for all of them.

Irie and her committee have been patient with his gaffes, which have grown less frequent over time; Irie appreciates how much he has sacrificed for this project.

But there is still much work to be done.

Near misses used to frustrate Garrett. They don't anymore. These days he chalks them up to experience. More of life's lessons. No matter how proficient you are, you can never truly predict the deal of the cards, the same way you never know who might ring the 1-800-Getaway line after most people have gone to bed.

This is why Garrett mans the phones through the early morning hours. Marcia doesn't understand, but eventually she will. As more of the Dr. House types start applying and the committee's ideals are being served, the rewards and incentives will grow. Marcia will eventually see that the Getaway project is a worthwhile cause.

Yes, he assures her, it won't be long before they will be able to move from Queens to Manhattan and into the townhouse she has wanted for so long. Material things still matter to her. He can't fault her for that; she has yet to experience a Getaway. Her reluctance is a source of frustration for Garrett, but he will one day convince her to shed that reticence and join him over there.

His footfalls clank against the metal flooring of Station One, the sound playing over and over, morphing, stretching as wide and deep as a football field before zinging back at him like a rubber band. Sounds do strange things here. A fingersnap _pings_ and ricochets off the walls like a gunshot, before fading into the ether.

The noise thing doesn't faze the guests. By the time they reach the Cubes they're usually too out of it to notice. And after the initial Getaway, when they realize the enormity of what they have just experienced, they're grateful.

Those who make the decision to return tell him how grateful they are. The chance to be part of this life altering _adventure_ is not handed out indiscriminately. It is an honor, a fact which the 'guests' worth keeping realize after the first mind-blowing jaunt.

Acclimating himself to Station One took the better part of a year. Marcia worried about Garrett's nightmares, the way he would jolt from his sleep, disoriented and terrified. He went through a bad patch: mood swings and crying jags were the worst. But the committee was patient with him; they had faith he would eventually weather the effects of Station One.

On rare occasions the dreams still get to him. But he is able to wish them away, like Irie taught him.

Everything is still so new.

The walls are midnight black, shining like the sleekest Towncar on the lot. But the room itself seems to go on into infinity; like a pitstop in the cosmos, a oasis in the center of the Milky Way. The Cubes give off the sole illumination. They are soft pastel pinks, greens, blues. Pretty. The guests find them appealing, loping toward their favorite color when they arrive. There are no ceilings or doors or windows. Only the walls and the floor and the Cubes are solid. The thought of what might be_ out there _still has the power to chill him.

After all the time he's spent traveling from Station One to the cities and back again, Garrett still doesn't like to think about where he is in terms of space and time and _place_. He knows when he is here... he is not really anywhere. The word Limbo has some nasty, 'trapped forever' connotations; how much easier and comforting it was to give this place a simpler, less soul numbing name. Station One. So let it be written...

The Station's temperature is set to a comfortably cool sixty-five degrees. Some guests complain of being cold but they forget all about that once they arrive at their destinations.

They forget a lot of things...

He strolls the area, sniffs the air. The six Cubes lining the wall sit silent, at rest. A faint chemical smell emanates from them. The Afterburn. Nothing can be done to eradicate the odor, but Garrett has grown used to it. Lately he's begun to like it. It stands for success, for progress.

Yes, the process is rolling along. But he never feels truly at ease until the guest has been primed and prepped ready and willing to take the next step.

On occasion, his guest will have a change of heart and blow off their appointment. He can usually sense this eventuality and is able to prepare accordingly, keeping a Cube on temporary hold rather than reserving it. Reserving a cubicle and not using it does not sit well with the committee. It is part of Garrett's job to be intuitive.

Now, his intuition assures him that extending the doctor an invitation was a wise move. Judging by Doctor House's checkered history, which Garrett was able to pull from his various sources, the doctor might be seduced by more colorful, challenging pastures. Maybe he would end up a permanent guest. A resident. Garrett smiles. Perhaps Pleasant Hills _is_ the place he would be most needed. But Garrett doesn't want to rush things. The scans will tell the tale.

* * *

The record is one he remembers from when he was a boy. His mother traveled with the same LP's everywhere they went, carrying them in a sturdy plastic case the Colonel bought her for Christmas one year (after her much loved Sinatra "Songs For Swingin' Lovers" album was crushed in transit). She dubbed these LP's her 'Desert Island Discs', and through the years, House became familiar with every note, every skip, every crackle in the grooves.

Right now, Robert Mitchum's "Calypso Is Like...So" is the record jacket stirring up the memories. Mitchum is too cool for words. One brow is hitched up, and he knows you want to be him, knows the chicks want to be _with _him. The light blue shirt opened to the center of his chest is a perfect complement to his sharp white chinos. He is seated on a table, drink in hand, a liter of rum just within reach. Behind him is one of those pouty, sultry babes you see in all the best film noirs. Red dress, swivel hips, scarlet lips open up...say, ahhhhh...

"Classic stuff." Tony, who wears a badge proclaiming, "Yes, I Am _That_ Tony", tilts his head to the right, leans his palms against the counter and grins. He is an Asian guy in his mid thirties, with spiky yellow hair and an Adam's Apple that bobs up and down when he laughs. "Mitchum was one of those actors who was a frustrated singer...only he could really sing."

House turns the record over to read the liner notes he could probably rattle off by heart. "How much?"

"Twenty-five," Tony says without hesitation. "Special deal for you. The record's worth at least fifty."

"How come I rate?"

"You're here to see Garrett, aren't you?"

_Yeah. _House planned on getting to that before being struck dumb by this wonderland. He has been on the hunt for a shop like this for a good long while, seeing how his old haunts went bust months ago. Scoping out a place that sold records and only records was a near impossibility. Hell, these days finding a independent music store of any kind was a challenge of Herculean proportions.

The internet was the beast that snagged customers away from treasure troves like Tony's. Push a button, instant tune. House concedes there is something to be said for that, but there is also an indefinable pleasure in placing a record on a turntable and watching it spin, then savoring the magic that pours from the speakers...

_Cool, daddy-o._

Records take up every available space in this shop; the perfume of cardboard sleeves mingling with the ancient dust buried in black grooves is intoxicating. Records. House breathes it all in. They surround him like old friends, lining the high shelves, packed in milk crates by his feet. He could spend a day, a year...a millennium perusing the stock.

Tony chuckles, which brings House slowly, reluctantly back to earth.

Narrowing his eyes at the guy, House tucks Bob Mitchum under his arm and wanders over to the next rack. "And how would you know I'm here to see Garrett?" he asks, staring with barely restrained excitement at the record before him. _Eddie Cochran...Summertime Blues. _He traces a finger along the top of the worthy find.

"Doctor...Gregory House?" House's head jerks up as Tony reaches behind the register and brings out a blue file folder. Stapled to the front right hand corner is a grainy black and white photo of House, most likely printed off the internet. "Garrett's got two appointments this afternoon but you're the only one scheduled for this morning."

Cool fingers skitter across House's shoulder blades and down his spine. He shivers, checks the doorway. The shade is drawn; pale sunlight leaks through the sides.

"Where is he?"

"He's waiting."

"Then lead on," House says, turning to gaze at the empty shop. "Doesn't look like you have too much else to-"

"You gotta sign the waiver."

House taps the tip of his cane against the dusty wooden floor. "I was promised--now let me get this straight--not so much a vacation as a total lifestyle change. I was told I would not be sorry." He lopes toward the counter, Bob and Eddie safe under his arm. "A waiver intimates there is an element of danger, that you don't want to be held responsible for my unfortunate demise, Tony." His lips twitch as he locks eyes with the clerk's. "Nobody said anything about a waiver."

"You _gotta _sign the waiver." Tony's lost his smile. He's fidgeting, looking like the kid who stole the teacher's chalk.

House _thwacks_ the crook of his cane against the counter, which causes Tony to let out a tiny cry of surprise and stumble back. The papers fall from the folder and scatter at his feet.

With a sorrowful click of his tongue, Tony surveys the mess but doesn't move to pick it up. Instead he meets House's eyes again and lets out a grim sigh. "Look, I don't know what to tell you. All I can say is that this offer you've been made...you should grab it. I'm not supposed to tell you this but they've given you a T2 rating."

"Wow," House says. "That and two bucks will get me a gallon of gas."

"A T2 is someone with high potential, someone they're going to treat like friggin' royalty." His tone is tremulous but he's got the earnest look of a boy who wants to please. He swallows hard, catches his breath. "You won't be sorry. I know. I've been there. It's amazing. It changed my whole outlook on so many-"

"Cut the crap." House fixes him with a glare, tightening his jaw at the pain in his thigh, which is beginning to get impatient for its late morning dose of cheer. "Give me the waiver."

Kneeling down, Tony retrieves the papers, then hands House one from the top of the pile. The text is part legalese, part plain english, as if the writer couldn't quite make up his mind how to express himself. House takes a moment to read each point, and is informed that the Party of the First Part (Getaway, Inc.) takes no responsibility for any emotional or physical trauma brought to The Party of the Second Part (the Guest) by this experience.

Slowly, House meets Tony's gaze again. "This is an experiment."

"Yes."

"So basically what you're saying is that I'm a guinea pig, a fun loving rat in a maze."

"In a way, you sort of get the point."

"Hold these for me." With some reluctance, House sets the LP's on the counter. "I'll be back for them."

"Sure." Tony gives him a relieved grin and places the records behind the desk.

After signing the form, House thrusts it back at him. "Let's go."


	7. Shift

**-7-**

"**Shift"**

She wonders why things work out the way they do. Why three children from different parts of the state were brought in today, all suffering from the same symptoms, each one's parents hoping to get an audience (an _audience!)_ with House?

These thoughts are Cuddy's constant companions as she sifts through the paperwork on her desk.

Fevers that seemed to arrive and depart on some strange set schedule had stymied the children's pediatricians. After running series after series of inconclusive tests, they were probably more than happy to send their patients and their parents to Princeton-Plainsboro, with implicit instructions to consult with the venerable Dr. House.

"He's on vacation," Cuddy told each one in turn, which prompted them to squawk in disbelief like disgruntled barnyard fowls. Her office seemed to shrink a little with each complaint batted her way.

After assuring them their children would be cared for by the most able physicians on staff, she passed the cases on to Foreman and the rest of House's team. The doctors were more than up to the task, she told herself. After giving them the file folders and a pep talk, she high-tailed it out of Diagnostics. She was not in the mood to bear witness to a passel of long faces and mutterings of misgivings. _ You need to be confident,_ she told them. _Your diagnostic skills have been honed by the best and now it's time to put that education to good use._

What she wants is to call House and get his take on these cases. Instead she pages Wilson and asks him what _he_ thinks she should do. He enters her office looking tired, swiping a lock of hair from his brow. He leans his hands on her desk and in a weary, emphatic tone tells her House is on vacation and to leave him be.

"Make too much of these things and he gets to thinking he's indispensable_," _Wilson continues. "We'll never hear the end of it when he comes back._"_

"But this case is right up his alley," Cuddy murmurs, then asks, "Don't you wonder what he's up to?"

He presses his lips together and looks away. For a moment she thinks he might leave her office without replying. But then he lets out a long breath, swipes that errant lock of hair away again.

"Yes," he tells her.

* * *

_There should be stars, _he thinks, floating in the blackness. _Stars_, _the moon...throw in the other eight planets...how 'bout the Milky Way?_

He floats. The universe turns.

Closing his eyes would be nice. Maybe then the vertigo would leave him, that rumblin' in his tumblin' might ease. But he can't seem to do it.

_Palms clammy...breathing shallow..._

He decides he wants out but doesn't know how to make it happen. He is afraid to look down.

_Afraid what you might find?_

He shivers against the cold as he drifts...and slowly...goes...numb.

After what feels like a millennium plus an hour or two he hears a voice. It is indistinct and he can't quite make out words but he has a feeling that voice has been here all along. It's just now soldering the wires, plugging in the leads.

He has to admit, it's good to know someone else is out there.

_You think? That voice could be the introduction to your worst nightmare._

If he has to make a choice, he'll take the voice over being lost in the void.

_Dr. House?_

The voice knows him. Ni-ice. Maybe it can 'splain some things: like why the last thing he remembers is following the jittery Asian guy through a doorway behind the cash register. Big mistake. After that it was lights out, night, night.

_Dr. House? _

He blinks at the face floating into view.

_It's okay. You're okay._

_If you say so. _ He can't seem to find his lips, his tongue, his vocal cords...

_It will all come back to you momentarily, _ this guy tells him, as if reading his mind._ Take deep breaths, concentrate on my face...I'm holding your hand...can you feel your hand in mine? Just...breathe...concentrate..._

The guy has a shock of curly black hair, a nose like Judd Hirsch and big cow eyes. His smile is supposed to be a comfort but it's somewhat twisted, self satisfied, a smirk, as if he just got away with robbing First Federal.

House's hand twitches. He feels the warmth of a meaty palm against his, the weight of a hand on his brow. His mouth opens, a soft moan emerges. This is cause for celebration.

"Very good."

His leg throbs. Needs his pills.

"Deep breath. In...and...out."

The realization hits him that something about the voice is wrong. It seems to come at him from nowhere yet everywhere, a ping pong ball from an ancient video game, bouncing wildly around the blackness.

He does his best to disregard this as he does as he is told, breathing in the air that smells like metal and chemicals and heat. After a few moments he feels better, more grounded. His extremities have weight and substance; his heart pounds, assuring him this deep black hole is not death's door but simply a page ripped from his itinerary. Despite the pain, despite little nips and twinges of fear, he is excited...his interest piqued, its needle trembling in the red. With his new friend's help he manages to wobble to a standing position...

...and immediately throws up. His breakfast spew makes a glorious slow motion arc into the void. Those retching sounds are like cries of an animal left out in the wilderness to die.

His pal gives an amused yet sympathetic click of his tongue, seemingly unperturbed, like this is something that happens all the time. Eyes watering, chest burning, House reaches for something...anything to steady himself against the unrelenting pain in his leg, the weakness assaulting the backs of his thighs and knees. But there is only The Nose, this curly haired geek, who has now become his only ally against this alien landscape.

"I'm Garrett. We spoke on the phone." The guy has him around the waist and is turning him toward the light, toward the

_cotton candy_

six oh, so delicious looking squares of orange, green, pink, blue, red and yellow.

"I'm dreaming," House sways and Garrett steadies him.

"No. This is what you came here for."

Turning to face him, a giggle rises from House's throat, mixing with the lingering taste of barf. "You sound like you just took a pull of helium."

"And you sound like you're in an echo chamber."

"Uh huh..."

"Funny old place, ain't it?" Garrett says. "Look at the lights."

"Explain," House says but does as he's told.

"We'll have time for that later, when you're not so insane in the membrane."

They're both laughing now, the sounds swirling and twirling like cherry lights on a squad car.

"Pick a color," Garrett waves a hand at the Cubes, reminding House of a game show host offering up a magnificent prize. "Any one you like."

_Blue...cool as the sea, a place to rest your head...but green is a forest...good place to hide ...trees and scrub, and...orange...taste of a Creamsicle...or a fruit of the grove...orange liqueur...Wilson uses it for cooking...sometimes...makes the chicken sweet...orange chicken..._

_Wilson...what's he doing now...what could he be-_

"Wakee, wakee, Dr. House-"

House's head jerks up as he snorts back the tail end of a snore. One hand grips Garrett's sleeve. Right leg throbs a reminder.

_...red is for pain, for passion, for cool cars, for Bob Mitchum's noir gal (say ahhhhh...), mingle red with black for a taste of mystery_

"Red," House croaks.

"Go for it."

Garrett steps back, giving House room. House dips into his jeans pocket, wraps his fingers around his vial, takes it out and shakes it. The sound is like the deep chug-a-chug of a locomotive rattling down the tracks.

"Give it a few minutes before you medicate yourself, Doctor."

House gives him a look.

"You may not need to."

"Are you're going to tell me to walk it off? Sorry, mama's old time cure-alls don't work on chronic pain from muscle death." He palms two pills, readies them for take-off.

"If you want to get the most out of this experience," Garrett's eyes are huge, as black as the surrounding floors and walls, "you're going to have to trust me."

House opens his mouth to receive the pills. He lifts his hand but finds to his dismay, the meds have vanished. With a start, he jabs his hand into his pocket and nips the end of his tongue to squelch a cry.

_The vial, she is gone_.

His gut clenches as he attempts to tamp down a slowly rising panic. "I've made a mistake."

"No, you haven't."

"Give me my meds. I'm leaving." House strains to see through the blankness and finds nothing. Down is up, up is down, except for those Cubes, which glow softly, pulsing with life, drawing him near. The red one beckons, a beacon brighter than the rest. So alive...Before he realizes it, he is nearly there.

"Trust me," Garrett says, "Take a step. You won't be sorry."

"So you've said."

Garrett seems to float through the dark, one hand extended toward House. "You won't need your cane. I'll take care of it."

"No, thanks." House's fingers wrap around the crook of his cane in a death grip, while his other hand makes a trip across the surface of the cube. The exterior is smooth, cool and responds to his touch with a series of bumps and a kick, like a fetus pushing against a womb. There is no opening. None that he can see, anyway.

_Take a chance..._

Surrender comes easy when the situation is so...out there.

_Calypso Is Like...So_

He hopes his records are safe behind that counter; he hopes Wilson is toiling under the weight of another boring day. He hopes whatever is next in this rabbit's den of acid flashbacks is even more intriguing. Weird is good. If that weirdness will be sustained and honed and maintained...even better.

_Vacation? You scoff at the thought of it. You don't take trips, too much time, energy and effort for very little gain. _

Ah, yes, but this looks to be a trip of a different sort.

The Cube has suddenly become his friend, growing warm, malleable, flowing around him, embracing him. _Do your worst, _he thinks before giving in completely.


	8. Forward

**-8-**

"**Forward"**

Rosa hums as she peels the potatoes. The sink is littered with their skins; the faucet is on and the _pitta-pitta-pat _of water against steel is comforting, like rain tapping at the window on a fall evening. Michael is in the living room, watching Bugs Bunny cartoons and coloring a picture he plans on giving to James. He colors the fire truck blue because it is sad. It has only _one-two-three _wheels, and Michael is hoping James will know how to fix it, since he is a doctor.

"Doctors fix people, not trucks, " Rosa has told him gently many times. Michael is somehow under the impression doctors can fix anything that is broken.

Rosa hums, something she has begun doing more frequently these days. Housework brings out the music in her, silly as it might seem. She only has to start making the beds or scrubbing the tub and a tune finds her. But it's cooking that inspires her musical meanderings more than anything else.

Eight months earlier she doubted she would ever make music again. Now the idea has possibilities. Before Nathan died she used to sing all the time, conjuring up songs on the Martin Ovation, which now waits patiently for her on the top shelf of her bedroom closet. She has no idea when she might be motivated to breathe life into a new song again; touching the instrument will probably bring her to tears. Too many memories would be stirred up by the feel of strings beneath her fingers, the curve of wood against her breast.

Humming is a start.

It's all about the starting over, her group leader at grief counseling told her. It's like pressing the 'refresh' button on a Windows browser. Initially she thought the analogy stupid and somewhat callous. Now she sees that it might make some sense after all.

Starting fresh is possibly the hardest thing she has ever done.

James has helped her make progress climbing that steep, nearly insurmountable incline. But has her presence helped him at all? In some ways, James is beyond help. He will never let go of this troubled relationship with House. The two are joined at the hip no matter if they're miles apart or in the same room.

But there is something...a depth to that relationship Rosa will never fully understand.

At times she is envious of a bond so strong it can't be severed. It's doubtful she will ever experience this level of intimacy, emotional or otherwise, with anyone. The chance that James could feel this symbiosis with her, this merging of minds and souls is slim. _It's okay. _ It's enough just having him here.

She wonders about House as she puts another potato into the pot by the sink. You can't help but wonder about someone you've been told is poison. Her first instinct is to tell herself she is of a different breed, that she would know how to handle this guy. And he would learn to respect her.

_He is poison..._

With a shake of her head, she realizes she is probably giving herself more credit than she deserves.

Still, she would like to meet this House, just once to make up her own mind about him. But, clearly, this is not her territory; not a street she's been invited to venture down. So she will steer clear.

Her thoughts drift back to James, how much she enjoys making him smile. But even when he smiles, his eyes hold so much hurt. She worries if he will ever truly be able to work through the grief that continues to feed on what remains of that good heart of his.

He tries.

They entered counseling at about the same time. After three sessions they began going for coffee together, neither of them anxious to return their empty houses with their silent rooms and too-wide beds. Michael stayed with Rosa's mother on counseling nights, which made tumbling into this relationship that much easier.

After Nathan's suicide Rosa thought she would pull through, surmised she was strong enough to hold her life together. The night Michael toddled into her bedroom and caught her sobbing convinced her otherwise.

Nathan battled a depression so debilitating, he was forced to leave his job as a photojournalist for _The Princeton Press_. He grew uncommunicative, spending hours sitting silent and alone in his darkroom. His antidepressant drug therapy ended four months after Rosa forced him into it. He refused counseling. Nothing Rosa said made a difference.

She was planning to take Michael and leave the state, even if it meant giving up the teaching job she loved. But Nathan left them first.

Life had never been so painful, so rife with misgivings, but Michael helped her through it; he became her lifeline. His presence, how he clung to her hand or her skirt as she wandered through her days, convinced her there had to be a way to expedite the healing process.

After she entered counseling, she realized that what she went through didn't seem half as tragic as James's loss of Amber. To lose someone so unexpectedly, to have them wrenched away...

At least James got to say goodbye.

"Mom."

She stands frozen by the sink, half peeled potato in one hand, paring knife in the other. Michael tugs at her jeans pocket.

"I fixed it."

"What's that, honey?" Rosa looks down to see Michael waving his artwork at her.

"The fire truck." He jabs a stubby finger at the paper. "One-two-three-four wheels. See? I fixed it."

The truck is now whole; its new wheel is a ragged blue circle rendered in hastily scribbled crayon.

"That's a beauty, Mike." Rosa's grin is genuine as she tells him, "James will be glad."

* * *

"Hello there."

He feels like he is inside the Saturday morning cartoon heart of Boy in Love. Boy's heart swells to three times its normal size, pounding _ba-boom, ba-boom, _ pushing through Boy's chest cavity, as shiny and pretty as an American Beauty rose. You almost think that heart is going to explode and splatter all over Girl's pretty pink dress. But, nah...

"Dr. House?"

He turns his head slowly to meet Garrett's eyes. "Red," he says.

"It sure as hell is," Garrett laughs. His teeth are sturdy and straight, white like the moon, all except his left canine, which is gray. Dying.

"Stating the obvious is a way of making useless conversation," House says.

"You started it."

"Just heading you off at the pass."

"We can continue down that road, if you like."

"No thanks, not interested."

They sit side by side engulfed by the crimson that pulses to its own beat. They listen for awhile; the sound is calming. It's like being safe inside the womb. Warm, secure...

"I hope you're not fading on me."

Garrett's voice jars him. House jolts from his doze, fixes the beaked nose wonder with a glare. "I want my meds."

"Not now. Not good for you now."

"Pain is not good for me now," House counters, rubbing his thigh. He wonders if this is an elaborate scam, a ruse put forth by his team. After all, he did get the travel magazine from Kutner, who, being a science fiction aficionado, might not be above planning a practical joke of this magnitude. On the outside, Kutner was like a goofy kid out for a good time. But look deeper and you find a wise, albeit crafty, physician, who is capable of many things.

"Did Kutner put you up to this?"

"I don't know any Kutner." Garrett's dark eyes twinkle.

"Ri-ight."

"You're thinking conspiracy theory?"

"That's a question for a question," House grumbles and clicks his tongue. "Here's another one. "Is there a point to this?"

"The point is...this is your vacation. It's supposed to be fun and exhilarating and...cool, as you might say." Garrett stands, the top of his curls dissolving through the crimson. "Since it is your vacation, you might consider relaxing and rolling with the flow."

"I have no idea what you're getting at. I feel like I'm in the funhouse at Coney Island and...it smells like burnt turpentine in here."

"That's just the remnants of the Afterburn." Garrett shrugs before leaning over, attaching a wire to each of House's temples. "Can't be helped."

"I'm being wired for sound...or to explode?"

Garrett laughs and sits again, crossing his legs like he's preparing to watch game three of The World Series. In his hand is something that looks like a small, sleek TV remote. "You sure are a curious guy. Would you be interested in checking out a travelogue of available locales?"

"'Curiouser and curiouser," House throws him a wary look. "If I wake up on a slab, who do I have to thank?"

"Close your eyes, Doctor," Garrett whispers. "It's showtime."


	9. Next

**-9-**

"**Next"**

The fevers didn't crop up all of a sudden. It had been between eight months to a year since the first instance presented itself. Since then the fevers appeared and disappeared like a aces in a magician's hand. At times they would spike as high as 105, seizures accompanying them more often than not. It was a nightmare for the parents, a weary parade of tests for the kids.

The three sets of parents had formed a support group. After a multitude of futile treks to their pediatricians, they did what many people do in desperate situations: scour the internet for help. They met at the American Academy of Pediatrics website, where they posted their woes in the Parent's Corner, describing their children's feverish spikes and dips, which seemed synchronized to some cruel, relentless clock.

Now they are in Cuddy's world; the children are all nestled snug in their hospital beds. It is late, nearly 10:30. All hopes for an audience with House have been dashed but Cuddy makes sure the children are well looked after.

It is difficult to gauge how long it might take to diagnose this odd, persistent malady; proficient doctors have already tried and failed. The parents ask anyway, their voices hoarse, eyes red-rimmed, their hands fidgeting at their sides. Cuddy can only assure them that everything that can be done is being done.

_Where is Doctor House?_ The question has become a mantra. She wishes she knew the answer. She has tried his cell phone numerous times and has received that same infuriating message to leave a message.

This is when she wants to throttle him, to remind him in a less than genteel way of his vocation.

_He's on vacation. You pushed him into it and he actually went somewhere. Either that or he's hibernating at home. But his car is gone; Wilson informed you of this. So where the hell would he go?_

She encourages the parents to head home, get some rest. They would be no good to their children if exhaustion set in. The majority of them see reason, but Eloise, the mother of the shy, honey haired Felicia, insists on sleeping on a cot next to her daughter.

Cuddy can't help but sympathize and has a nurse set Eloise up with blankets and pillows.

After making her way down the quiet corridors to her office, Cuddy closes her door and stands in the center of the room, savoring the silence and solitude. After a slow ten count, she seats herself behind her desk, exhales softly and covers her face with her hands. The self imposed darkness feels nice. Here she can be a child again, pressing her hands against her eyes, blocking out the light, pretending to be invisible.

_They can't get you if they can't find you..._

The members of House's team are scheduling shifts in order to monitor the children around the clock, but Cuddy has little hope they will come up with the answer. They are good but still...

She wonders if one of them might have a clue to where House has gone. House is a talker and a braggart and could have let something slip, especially if there are loose women and liters of bourbon in his immediate future. She gives this some serious thought but decides not to ask. If her doctors feel she lacks confidence in their abilities, she will have done them, the hospital and herself a great disservice.

It is Kutner who provides her with what could be a lead. Cuddy is just shutting down her computer and slipping on her jacket when Kutner knocks twice and enters her office. He is taking the night shift but even at this late hour, seems refreshed and awake. Maybe he cat-napped on his break...

"House might have gotten his vacation idea from this." He pulls a magazine from his back pocket and hands it to her. "They always send me two, so I left a copy in his office before he took off. Something in there might have struck his fancy," he says, cocking his head. "They offer some pretty unconventional getaways."

The cover photo of three smiling collegiate types standing next to a toothless leathery skinned woman causes Cuddy to wince. For their dining pleasure, the group are sharing a crispy snake on a stick. Behind them are cauldrons and grass huts and mountains with snowy peaks.

House wouldn't go there if Carmen Electra lay nude, pining for him inside Baba Yaga's hut.

But she thanks Kutner. After dismissing him she tucks the magazine into her briefcase.

Later, much later, she falls asleep and dreams of orange skies, mangos and boa constrictors making themselves at home in her entrails.

* * *

_Go, Speed Racer, go, go, GO!_

He zips, he zooms, he _flies. _The sensation is a rush, like having wings on his heels and a jetpack on his back. A sound accompanies the ride, a not unpleasant roar, emanating from inside his head. It is the sound of a lion's yawn or a giant wave cresting in slo-mo before crashing to the shore.

But this is not what he sees.

He soars...through a whirligig of deep golds, purples and reds. The colors (yeah, man, the _colors) _are like bright smears of paint blurring and meshing into an eye-catching yet indefinable hue. Somewhere in the back of his mind someone (Garrett?) is giving him the lowdown, the director's commentary on this dreamscape. Some of the words make sense and others are as indistinct as the brilliant wash of colors. The odd thing is, the concept is crystal clear. The choice of where he lands will be made based on true feelings, pure thought, no wall of deceit to get in the way...

_What do you think, Doctor?_

Below him is a city filled with dazzling white lights and cool sounds; he senses the music more than hears it, a mix of tactile colors this time: gritty brown jazz, like sand between his fingers, golden sweet sax, like warm honey on his tongue, a cacophony of chatter, of car horns and so much more, melding, meshing, nothing as boring as reality to get in the way...

But how about this?

_how about..._

_we leave the world of hep cats and ditty-bop behind to venture farther out to the 'burbs. Here are white picket fences, quiet, tree-lined streets where birds twitter, a dog yips, church bells chime the hour. Smells of grilled chicken, hot dogs and freshly mown grass make you smile that secret little smile. Easy, so easy. Over there...wash hangs on the line, white sheets waving, waving, blanketing the world, welcoming you to your town..._

_Welcome._

A sweet, small tinkle of bells awakens him. The sound is distant but, he guesstimates, not too far away. Something about them makes him think of summer, of cotton candy...of leaving places before he is ready. It is a lonely feeling so he switches gears, surrendering to a huge yawn, his mouth open wide, head tilted back as he stretches and enjoys the feel of the sun warm on his face.

_...moments as simple and pleasurable as this..._

That voice in his head is breaking up. That dude with the nose like a hawk's beak has been chattering to him for a good long time.

_Garrett._

Yeah, Garrett's voice crackles and dies. He is gone now, which is kind of good and kind of bad. Without dwelling on this too much, House runs his hands down his chest, over his jean clad thighs.

The bells tinkle again, closer now, like they are calling him. Opening his eyes is an option; remaining exactly as he is another. He feels...free.

The warm breeze ruffles his hair. Something feather light and cold lands on his brow and on his hand that grips his cane.

When he opens his eyes, he is greeted by sunlight of such pure yellow-white it should hurt, but it doesn't. The air is warm, balmy yet...snowflakes drift from the sky. The flake on his hand has melted but another five or six have taken its place. He scrutinizes them; touches them to his tongue.

_...a season to suit every whim..._

Garrett, it seems is not quite done talking. But House has better things to do than to listen to him prattle on.

In the yard across the street stands a sturdy oak tree dressed up for autumn: all oranges, yellows, reds and browns.

The air is filled with the smoky tang of burning leaves. The smell brings back a lonely, longing ache that not even a fistful of Vicodin could ease.

Pushing the melancholia away, he attempts to immerse himself in what passes for reality. Isn't that what vacations are all about?

He sits on a bench the color of Dorothy Gale's ruby slippers, feeling like an old codger taking a break from his afternoon constitutional. Running one hand along the smooth wood, he wonders about dreams and how real they can seem and those wires that were (years ago) attached to his temples.

_Ting-a-ling-a-ling_

The ice cream truck pulls up to the curb with Wilson in the driver's seat. He smiles, causing those dimples to deepen as he tips his white cap with the shiny black bill. "Welcome."

After a careful scrutiny, House realizes that although the guy's a dead ringer he's not the genuine article. Those eyes are a little too wide and possess none of Wilson's world weary cynicism; his lips are thinner, his hair about two shades darker.

_Close but no cigar._ House heaves a disappointed sigh. With its picket fences and lazy, homespun atmosphere, this place would be right up Wilson's alley.

"Free ice cream for our new arrivals." Wilson-Not-Wilson takes a jaunty step out of his cab and heads to the rear of the truck. "Cone or cup? Vanilla, chocolate, strawberry?" He pulls open the little door, allowing a fog of frozen air to escape and drift around his head. He peers at House hopefully.

"Vanilla cone."

Like a conjurer reaching into his magic hat, Ice Cream Man Wilson's arm extends into the freezer and immediately comes up with goods. _He knew all along,_ House thinks.

_He knows everything about you._

All the rest is a show.

Shrugging off the unease and the feeling that someone's fingers have been probing and prodding inside his gray matter, House accepts the treat.

"What's your name?" House asks, before taking a tentative lick of the ice cream. It's richer and creamier than the store bought stuff.

The question stymies Ice Cream Man. His reaction, the rub of the neck, the squint of the eyes makes his resemblance to Wilson more than uncanny. It's downright terrifying. The ice cream, that delicious confection, slides down House's tongue before meeting the lump in his throat. He feels like throwing the rest into the ruby red trash can (_Pleasant Hills is your town. Please keep it clean) _at his side. But no can do. Despite his shaky hand and that stone that has taken residence in the middle of his chest, he really wants to finish the cone.

Ice Cream Man Wilson hurries back to his truck and starts the engine. The bells tinkle. His smile returns but it is nowhere near as open and amiable as before. His teeth are bared, making him look like a frightened animal. "Mr. Sarno at the Town Hall will want to see you."

"Will he now?"

"You should go." Ice Cream Man Wilson nearly drops his hat in the process of tipping it again.

House raises a hand, confusion muddling his thoughts. "Where-"

"Be seeing you."

A frigid wind whistles and sighs, causing the leaves and foliage to tremble as they hiss their complaint. House shivers, raises his eyes, silently lamenting the storm clouds rolling in. He is not ready for this, he concedes, tossing the remainder of the cone in the garbage. Silver-gray and ominous, the sudden appearance of the clouds does nothing to convince him this is not a dream. That he is not still wired up in that red cube, big nose Garrett supervising the proceedings...

How was Kutner able to put together a prank of such magnitude? The thought hits him with an abruptness that is disconcerting. Yet there is something cool about being 'punked' with such detail and flash. If Kutner is behind this, House is almost proud of him.

The clouds pass. The sun smiles down again, yellow-white, like an egg frying in a sky blue pan. Across the street a small boy plays in the yard, bounding over two wooden crates he has put there for this reason. After each successful jump he gives out with a hearty "Yahoo!".

Behind him is a slim woman with skin like mocha and hair like chocolate silk. As she hangs shirts on a line, her lips curl into a soft smile. The boy is amusing her. She loves him; he's not a burden. The thoughts fly at House from every direction. He catches them; stores them away for another time as he continues his surveillance. The woman stands on her toes to reach for another clothespin, causing her white cotton dress to strain at her pretty darn glorious bosom.

_...something to be said for the scenic view..._

Garrett is no longer amusing or cool. House wishes he would go away.

Something small but powerful tugs at him. He should be enjoying himself...somewhere. This is a vacation, which means he should be immersing himself in diversions more along the lines of television,hookers, porn and booze. His eyes scan the empty suburban streets.

_There must be a pub around here somewhere. A homey little place where the bartender calls you Joe and pours himself a drink while he fills your glass. _

_That's the ticket._

House decides he no longer wants to sit and smell the grass and watch a hot mama playing the dutiful little wifey...

Rubbing his hands together, he leans forward, preparing to rise from his seat and explore. But after a few moments, he finds he has made no move to get on with his day.

"_Yahoo!" _ The kid takes one final leap before breaking into a run and braking at the curb. "Wel-come, welcome, welcome!" he yells, waving his arms in excitement.

Against his better judgement, House hesitantly lifts one hand in greeting, then looks at the sky.

The sun should be higher. He's been here awhile, the earth should have turned, shadows should have shifted.

_No._

The day, it seems, is waiting for his next move.


	10. Afterburn

**-10-**

"**Afterburn"**

A bit of sparkle, a wisp of smoke, then...nothing. Garrett stares at the seat the Doctor vacated moments ago. The Afterburn is strong: a potent mix of ash, plasticine and some indefinable scent that is the Doctor's own. His smell is not unpleasant; it reminds Garrett of tobacco, 100 proof scotch, wood oil and motor exhaust. Very male, very old world.

The Afterburn reveals much about Garrett's clients; it is like being given a brief glimpse into their souls. Garrett wishes he could bottle their scents and stow them in a wall safe somewhere, to breathe in when he is feeling stressed or burned out or just plain unhappy. He would share them with Marcia, show her his work is not all numbers and subterfuge; that there is something inherently human in all of this.

Sarno, the old womanizer, would just love for Marcia to try a getaway (after taking a good long look the photo of a bikini clad Marcia on Garrett's desk, Sarno is somewhat smitten); so would Irie, but there is little chance of that happening.

Someday Garrett will convince Marcia to join him over there, show her the sights. They could take a little vacation, hop the tram to the Wylekirk, a more provocative 'adult' resort in Nova City. The resort is a complex of black and red buildings, tucked away deep in the northwestern hills. Those clients more inclined toward misadventure generally land there. The activities offered are not for the squeamish or for those looking for good clean fun (although there is a smattering of that in Nova City, as well).

The Wylekirk caters to the impulsive, the uninhibited who take their fetishes seriously. The amenities include a leather room and a unisex clothing optional spa; areas with such names as _Bondage Dujour, _and_ The Marquis' Lair _ then there is Targus, the three hundred pound masseuse with the oh, so gentle touch...

Pleasant Hills was designed as Nova's polar opposite, a town for those who prefer the straight and narrow over the wildly excessive. Knowing what he does about Doctor House and the more questionable aspects of his past, Garrett fully expected him to touch down in Nova City. But Pleasant Hills was the place that attracted his essence and drew him in.

Garrett shakes his head, runs one hand over the still warm seat. The getaway process never fails to surprise and amaze him. It is anything but predictable.

Now he leans forward, reaches into a slot behind the vacant chair and ejects a silver disc the size of a quarter. It lands on the flat of his palm. Blank, smooth, deceptively innocuous, it reveals nothing until...he slides it into opening on the side of rectangular device (which Garrett has dubbed Scavenger) in his other hand; the disk connects with a satisfying _click. _Scavenger hums.

Inside the disk are remnants of Afterburn left behind by the Doctor when he vacated the premises. The essence of that Afterburn will be used by Scavenger to synch with Dr. House and enable Garrett to hone in and even get some idea of his charge's mood. These readings plus reports from Sarno are crucial if this particular project is to go as planned.

Scavenger is as trusty and true as a box of wires, chips and metal can be. It will never let Dr. House out of its sight.

* * *

The town is a dismal place. Not that it's a slum; far from it. Everything is clean and bright and as white as snowcaps on Mount Kilimanjaro. It's all so damn quiet. The tires of the occasional passing car whisper as they roll along the perfectly smooth roads.

Somewhere down another street (_in another land),_ bells of the ice cream truck tinkle.

The sky has cleared and is now as blue as a Mediterranean sea. The air has turned crisp and autumn-like. No telling what the climate will be like in an hour, however long an hour might be here. Time seems stuck at about three o' clock. He flips his wrist over to check his watch, but his watch has been replaced by a silver ID bracelet.

"_**Greg"**_ The letters are fancy, calligraphic, etched into the silver by an expert hand. He jangles the bracelet experimentally; it sounds like those ice cream truck bells, which makes him yearn to see the driver of that truck one more time, scrutinize his features. Ice Cream Man looked like Wilson and the thought of that familiar face makes House ache all over again.

He has wandered into the heart of town. Rows of shops line streets bereft of passersby. The town is a drowsy haven. It makes him think of hammocks and beer and bonfires and apples. He loves it; he hates that he loves it.

Here is a library, a pharmacy, grocery, a newsstand that probably doesn't even stock _Playboy, _much less _Hustler._ Two women brush by him; they are clad in summer dresses and sun hats, seemingly unconcerned that it is goddamn, friggin' autumn.

He must have said it aloud, since they are looking at him now. They are twins, which makes him entertain thoughts of becoming the meat part of a sister sandwich. But no...their scarlet lips twitch at him in disapproval.

Raising a brow, he thinks,_ Fashion police are gonna git ya._

They switch round as one and begin to saunter away.

_Idiots._ _Bitches. Ho's._

Their shoulder bags bounce against their hips, flat heels _scrit-ching _against the sidewalk. They smell like the air, all roses and sunshine and-

His leg doesn't hurt.

The realization hits him the minute the church bell chimes the hour.

No matter how medicated he is, the leg always has a way of making its discomfort the star of the show. Now nothing hurts. The leg is just peachy, like the Pleasant Hills Dry Cleaner, like the Food Mart and the Five and Dime.

_Garrett took away your meds...he knew. He knew._

A chill shimmies its way up his spine. He wraps his fingers tighter around his cane and thinks of Sarno. The thought comes to him unbidden, like a bird lighting on his shoulder.

Sarno. The name is a breeze riffling his hair, tickling his ear.

Cupping a hand over his eyes, he squints against the sun's glare. The municipal buildings should be around here somewhere: town hall, courthouse...police...jail. Something tells him he might find them just around the corner. Something tells him...

_Sarno will be there._

His feet move of their own volition, leading him where he needs to go.

This is not a vacation, he thinks, marching around the block, his steps more assured then they have been since his leg turned traitorous. If this were a real vacation, he reasons to the air, he would be sitting in some exotic bar, tossing back a cool one. A nubile waitress with breasts like ripe casabas and skin like butterscotch cream would agree to be his slave for the night (with the right combination of currency and charm as persuasion).

This homage to the land of the Donna Reed and Father Knows Best is not a place he would find desirous on the best of days.

"This is a mistake," he says, blinking his eyes open. His head snaps up as if he has been deep in a dream. Before him stands a two story brick structure. Twin columns flank the steel and glass entranceway. The legend, _Pleasant Hills Town Hall is _carved into the stone above the door.

"A mistake, " he mutters as his feet bring him down the cobblestone path toward the entrance. The lawn on either side of him is green and lush enough to make a _Home and Garden _enthusiast swell with pride.

_Sarno is waiting._

Yes, that particular tune has been playing in his head since he moved his butt off the bench and headed downtown.

_Hearing voices, are you, old man?_

"A mistake," he grumbles in response as he wrenches open the door and steps inside.

* * *

His surroundings attempt to distract him from his burgeoning anger, his mounting confusion and, most of all, his disappointment. A town map crafted out of mosaic tiles greets him as he turns the corner. Every two story Colonial, retail store, nursing home, hospital and miles and miles of rolling green hills has been masterfully rendered. Look too close and nothing makes sense. But take a step back and it all falls into place.

_Just like a lot of things..._

His tension eases as he runs his fingers over the design. The tiles are like jelly, shuddering at his touch. An odd buzzing rises from the floor, like an electric current is zipping around under his Nikes.

"Can I help you, sir?"

With a jolt, House turns to meet the walrus mustachioed smile of security.

"I'm Ralph." The wide mustache twitches. "Are you the doctor?"

"How long did it take to do this?" House taps the tip of the cane against the wall map. This time the walls of the Town Hall tremble, like the forewarning of an apocalyptic event.

"A very loo-oong, time." Ralph chuckles, waggling a gentle, scolding finger in House's face. "That's why we nev-ah, ev-ah touch."

"There should be a sign."

"Adults should know better and children should be told." Crossing his arms across his rotund form, Ralph bounces on his boot heels. "Are you the doctor?"

"You look like Captain Kangaroo."

"You shouldn't make me ask you again, sir."

"I am _a_ doctor."

"Good." Ralph offers a decisive nod. "Sarno's waiting." He lets out a booming laugh, sounding like Santa on the road to hell.

House can't help but wince.

"Come with me." Ralph beckons, then winks and leads the way.


	11. Clues

**-11-**

"**Clues"**

It is starting again. The restlessness, this wondering what House is doing, right this minute, right at this very-

From where he sits on the living room sofa, he can see Rosa in the kitchen, placing the dinner dishes in the dishwasher, setting the roasting pan to soak in sudsy water in the sink. She is humming.

Wilson usually helps her clean up. Tonight he can't find it in himself to do so. All he wants is to sit and think and speculate.

_where is he?_

He doesn't want to converse. It would be easy to talk for the sake of talking, but he doesn't want to do that. Fortunately, Rosa will be occupied cleaning, straightening and humming for the next few minutes, while Michael sits on the carpet at Wilson's feet, dividing his attention between coloring firetrucks and watching _Blues Clues. _For now, at least, Wilson is not required to say anything to either of them.

And that's when he wonders why he is even here. The thought snuggles next to him; it is going to be his best bud for awhile.

He doesn't like how quickly the idea attached itself to him. But this doesn't mean he wants it to leave.

_Sound familiar?_

His gaze falls on the wide-eyed grinning guy on TV. Joe is his name. How Wilson knows this is anybody's guess. Joe is not the same guy who used to be Blue's buddy. That guy's name was Steve and he left to make his mark in the music business (which probably didn't work out so well, Wilson figures, because, heck, where is he now?).

"Is that your thinking chair, James?" Michael points a blue crayon at him.

Despite his maudlin mood, and the Idea that is now clambering onto his lap like some needy stray cat, Wilson manages a smile. "I don't know. Why?"

"You look like you're thinking. Just like Joe."

He wants to tell Michael the truth. That Joe is not Joe at all. His name is Donovan and he used to be a starving artist, then a waiter and now he's a kiddie show god.

_And how the fuck do you know all this?_

House told him. House knows shit like this. Wilson doesn't know where in that rat maze of a brain House stores such useless information, but it's there. It resides next to all the other ridiculous bits of fodder House will spew out a moment's notice to impress, to irritate, to amuse.

_Dr. House took a vacation._

Ridiculous.

Wilson pushes himself off the newly reupholstered couch, then tucks his hands into his trouser pockets as he ambles into the kitchen. Rosa is pressing the lid on the Tupperware bowl, sealing up the leftovers for tomorrow's lunches.

"Hi." She brushes a lock of hair off her brow with the back of her hand. A thin sheen of sweat shines above her lip. "Mike still watching Blues?"

"Yeah." Wilson shifts his shoulders uneasily. "I'm going to take off, Rosa."

The back of her hand dabs at the perspiration above her lip. She sniffs and looks at him. "Why?"

"I...just need to go home."

Her dark eyes flash before she turns away from him. Tupperware in hand, she pulls open the fridge and stows the next day's meals on the second shelf. "Is everything alright?"

"Sure. I...just have some stuff to take care of."

"Is House okay?"

The name sounds wrong coming from her; like she is speaking a language she hasn't yet mastered.

Leaning one palm against the table, Wilson gives a slow, sad shake of his head. "I don't know."

* * *

The moment he starts the engine, his cell phone rings, as if the caller knew just the right moment to dial in. The name and number on the screen are more than familiar. The call is not totally unexpected.

The phone is warm and smooth against his ear. The voice at the other end resonates with a sharp, sorrowful edge, despite its owner's attempt to sound upbeat and confident. The longer Wilson listens, the more his gut twists, like a saturated cloth being wrung dry.

He puts the Volvo in drive and taps the gas, assuring Cuddy he will be at her place in twenty minutes.

* * *

Cuddy's dining room table is an heirloom, handed down to her from her maternal grandmother. Cuddy's sister, Susan, wanted it more but since Susan was awarded the bulk of the inheritance, Cuddy felt no guilt over the acquisition. Besides, it gave the dining room a touch of old world class.

It has borne witness to tears, to arguments of monumental proportions, a few nights of drunken revelry, sex and laughter. The night House grabbed her ass in the foyer was a moment for the books, now probably ingrained deep inside the table's ancient soul.

But it stands, as always, silent and proud in all its cherrywood splendor and reveals nothing. Wilson sits at the table, sifting through Kutner's vacation guide_, _one finger tracing circles and squares on the table's surface. Cuddy watches him hopefully. Eight months ago he would not have indulged her. He would have told her it didn't matter where House went, what he did or if he ever returned.

Time changes lots of things.

"He would never go to any of these places," Wilson says. "Too bare bones, they would require too much effort on his part. There's too much walking involved on most of these getaways, plus there's no ESPN, no "Prescription Passions. Uh, uh." He meets her eyes and uses two fingers to shift the magazine back to her. "He's probably holed up in some rented room in Atlantic City, entertaining a Baskin-Robbins assortment of hookers and throwing down bets in the racebook. _ That's_ House's idea of a good time."

Like a woman on a mission, Cuddy's brows furrow in concentration as she rapidly flips through the pages. "I want you to see at something."

Leaning in closer, he waits for her to reach her destination. She arrives, tapping a staccato rhythm against a quarter page classified ad. It's bold black letters compel Wilson to grab the magazine to get a better look.

"**Not many have what it takes to be part of what we do. What we offer is not so much a vacation as a total lifestyle change. But it's not what you might think. You have no idea. You are curious. You will call the number. You will see if you are fit to play the part.**

**You will not be sorry."**

Wilson reads the ad twice before slowly lifting his eyes to meet Cuddy's anxious gaze.

"You think?" she asks.

"Shit." Wilson's lips lift into a tremulous half-grin. "I know."

* * *

Sarno wears a Humphrey Bogart fedora, a tan suit jacket and pale pink dress shirt sans tie. His white-blond soul patch matches the hair that is short and neat curling up just above his collar. His black trousers seem a bit too snug in all the wrong places. He wears espadrilles without socks. House tilts his head and twirls his cane, wondering if the guy always rocks this sort of slacker, beach bum look. It sure doesn't jibe with the 1960's conservative pastiche of Pleasant Hills.

Leaning against the threshold to Sarno's office, House watches as Sarno dumps files into the top drawer of a metal cabinet, then rushes to shut down a Hewlett-Packard PC; its tower is as bulky as a tank, its shell dull and dusty. It is ancient, as computers go; ten years old, at least. It is being temperamental, refusing to go gentle into that good night. After pounding CTL-ALT-DELETE on the keyboard three or four times, Sarno hisses a few choice epithets. He clicks his tongue and wrenches the plug from the wall.

"Piece a shit," he grunts, tossing the wire under a dented, rust mottled desk, which is as world weary as the computer.

Suddenly House decides he has had enough. This is no vacation, it is no longer interesting enough to sustain that creepy little tingle of curiosity he felt when he arrived. The situation has become more irritating than captivating; he doesn't want to be here anymore.

"I really need to apologize for being such a poor host, Doctor." Sarno is still glaring at his computer as he speaks. "Things here have been a bit hectic lately. It's hard to keep up." He looks up, offering a smile that is more like a grimace. "I wanted to be on hand when you arrived but Joe Bean, our Food King manager, suffered a Grand Mal. We had to bring the doc over from Nova City; that took an hour-

"Not interested."

"Huh?" Sarno's brow furrows. Those light gray eyes turn the color of dark slate. He is not a happy camper.

"I don't care," House says.

"Oh."

House takes one long step forward. "This is supposed to be my vacation. So far it's been nothing but an unnerving trip down the rabbit hole," House pauses, frowns. "I'm still waiting for the punch line. Kutner put you up to this?"

"Who?"

House's fixes Sarno with a stoney glare. Inside he is beaming. There is something to be said for a well placed pause. The intimidation factor can multiply ten fold in that piddling span of time. He twirls the cane again, this time from hand to hand.

"Who's the ice cream man?" House barks.

"Ah...that's Ian. Did you get your welcome cone?"

"He looks like Wilson."

"What's that?"

"Why does he look like Wilson?"

Sarno's attention turns to a smattering of peanut shells on his desk. He gathers them into his hand and drops them in the trashcan by his feet.

"Nevermind," House gives him a dismissive wave. "Get me out of here."

With a confident heft of his shoulders, Sarno asks, "You signed the waiver didn't you?" The tic above his left eye belies his bravado. "Didn't you?"

House needs to think about this for a moment. He can barely remember arriving, much less signing his life away. Whatever went on prior to finding himself on that bench comes through like a murky half remembered dream.

"Shit, man. It wasn't supposed to be _this_ difficult." Sarno fishes through the papers on the desk, muttering, exasperated, until he finds what he is looking for. "See? You did sign the waiver." He waggles the paper at House before slamming one hand on the side of the desk. It makes a sound like a hollow drum.

"So what?"

"It means you agreed to hang around here twenty-four hours before making the decision to stay longer or go back."

House releases Sarno from his gaze and studies the way his own thumb leans into the crook of his cane...the cane he no longer seems to need. He senses Sarno's grin before raising his eyes.

"Feels better, doesn't it?" The smile is one of a winner, the guy who has slammed the ball into the endzone.

"Yeah..."

"Come on, don't be such a gloomy Gus." Sarno chuckles and sets a hand on House's shoulder. House's first impulse is to shrug it off but can't find it in himself to do it.

"I'll give you the grand tour and show you where you're staying."

This surreal day has ground House down. The not knowing has taken its toll; a feeling of malaise washes over him and all he wants is to be home with his pills, his booze and his bed. His regret runs deep. This is what happens when he allows his curiosity to get the better of him.

Exhaling sharply, he takes in the framed paintings on the walls, pretty pictures of houses and farms and fields: $49.95 Sears specials. Sitting precariously on the edge of Sarno's desk is a black plastic ashtray, it looks too black, too deep, as if its interior descends for miles. "I _am_ dreaming," House says like a kid refuting an irrefutable fact. "What _is _this place?"

Sarno's smile widens, revealing two front teeth as gray as elephant skin. He chuckles again, keeping that warmth factor high. "Let me show you around."


	12. Deeper

**-12-**

"**Deeper"**

The first of the three children to spike a fever is Felicia. It is 5 AM. Eloise sits on the edge of her cot, holding her daughter's hand when it happens, when Felicia begins the moaning and weeping that always accompanies her plight. Eloise can actually feel the girl heat up, like a kettle of water reaching its boiling point. It is hardly a surprise; Eloise knew it was coming, which is part of the reason she requested to spend the night by Felicia's side.

She is exhausted. They both are. Like clockwork, the fevers arrive every twenty six days, and Eloise fears the persistence of the ailment might just do the both of them in.

But she doesn't want to think this way. Everyone has been so nice, so eager to help. She wishes she could feel some hope, some small spark of optimism. Doctor House might have had this thing figured out by now. If he were here.

Nurses arrive with a temperature controlled cooling blanket. With practiced efficiency they undress Felicia, then sponge her down with lukewarm water before laying the blanket over her. The routine has become as natural as breathing.

At times Felicia becomes delirious, yammering away to cartoon characters, the Jonas Brothers, friends from school and others who exist only in her fevered brain. After awhile the chatter gives way to quiet sobs as Eloise rocks her daughter in her arms.

The handsome Indian doctor arrives to tell her that Felicia will be put through a battery of tests today. Under his arm is a clipboard; she assumes there is another consent form to sign because she knows the routine. The doctor rattles off ailments that could be causing the fevers: juvenile rheumatoid arthritis, cyclic neutropenia. Eloise appreciates the fact that he wants to keep her in the loop but he might as well be speaking Greek or Chinese...

Her shoulders slump; her exhaustion has nearly done her in. Even so, she manages to explain that Felicia has already been tested and prodded and poked...and

_Where is Doctor House?_

The handsome Indian doctor with the kind eyes assures her he understands. But the tests already run on Felicia were not up to the diagnostic team's standards. They would like to do a more comprehensive workup of all three children.

The fight has been taken from her. She signs the form, granting them permission to do what they will.

* * *

Wilson sits on his bed, two pillows propped against the headboard, cushioning his back. He has worked hard at coming to terms with the fact that this is still his bed. For weeks after Amber died, he tried sleeping on the sofa, except they had spent countless moments talking, eating and making love there too. Memories lurked behind the TV; they leaped out at him when he opened his closet to choose a shirt for the day. They assaulted him from every corner of the place, so what did it matter where he ended up?

_You have Rosa._

Yeah. He does. So why is he here?

A slow exhale seems to help ease the heaviness in his chest. On to other things. He stares at the Google page open on his laptop screen; the cursor winks at him like an annoying uncle at a family reunion.

_Try, try again._

He has typed the words of the strange, cryptic travel offer into his word processor and now plans to cut and paste it into his browser.

It is 5 AM and he is running on four hours of sleep. Tossing and turning, making a valiant attempt to prevent himself from obsessing over House's latest 'situation' did nothing but give him a headache. Finally he gave up trying to coax temporary oblivion to join him, downed two Excedrin gel caps with a glass of orange juice and settled in to see what he could see.

(_**you are curious; you will not be sorry...**_)

It is easy to imagine House absorbing those words, falling prey to that challenge. Wilson shakes his head as he pastes the text into the Google search and waits for the results.

What he gets back is not totally unexpected: the postings of a few obsessive loons on sites catering to UFO freaks, alien abduction victims and those who wish they were.

Their comments are disjointed, rambling. It is obvious these people are Post Toasties, as his mother might have called them. They are delusional, drug addled; descriptions of their experiences are rife with 'I thinks' and 'I can't be sures'. What they do recall borders on insanity. Stories of being shuttled off to 'another plain of existence in candy colored chairs' is just too much for Wilson to deal with.

House would never take this crap seriously.

Wilson wonders if he should mention his findings to Cuddy. But they were looking for something sane, some voice of reason to explain it all. Not this.

Later, when the sun rises higher and his head stops pounding Wilson will call the 800 number and speak to someone about the 'lifestyle change' that is being offered. Going to the source is more logical, more _sane_. There has to be a better explanation for where House might have gone than what Wilson excavated on the 'net.

He closes his computer and shuts his eyes, the brightness of the screen fading behind his lids as he primes himself to meet the day.

* * *

Once upon a time House dreamed he was the ruler of a great city, a city whose beauty and grandeur were dwarfed only by the immensity of the sky and the sea. Inspired by stories his mother read to him, captivated by the richness and diversity of the places he visited, his fantasies often embodied being at the top of the heap of the ruling class: the go-to guy, the one his subjects would both revere and despise.

Sarno waves a hand at the city below "This-"

"-is dookie," House interjects, leaning two hands on his cane as he casts a disparaging eye over the scene. _This _isn't anything like the city he concocted in his head as a kid. This is white picket fences, two point five kids and a chicken in every pot.

"Caca," he goes on. "Fecal matter..."

They stand side by side atop of a grassy rise behind the Town Hall. From here Pleasant Hills is a sedate patchwork of civilization: a place to raise your kids and watch them go off to more exciting, lucrative pastures; a place for the old folks to rock on their porch swings and watch the world go by.

_You think you hate this._

No, he realizes, he doesn't hate it. He spent his high school years in a town like this. He got his first taste of nookie in a town like this. He learned to drive in a town like this.

"Aw, man, you're not even listening to me." Sarno throws his hands in the air, then gives House a disappointed look. "You're supposed to be curious and smart, always looking for reasons, digging for answers. I could show you some amazing things-"

"_...shit_," House tells him with a somber air of finality.

"Maybe you should leave," Sarno says with a sigh. "It's not generally done before the twenty four hours are up but sometimes exceptions gotta be made."

This is unexpected. Now suddenly, more than anything, House wants to stick around awhile.

"I can arrange it." Sarno digs out the rectangular keypad that seems to control the universe.

"You know too much about me."

"You're not exactly an unknown entity." Sarno's fingers are all over that keypad, arranging House's ride out of here. "The whole community's buzzing with the fact you're here. It's big news."

_king of the world, top of the heap...kind of cool, don't you think...?_

"Wait." House puts one hand on the box in Sarno's hand. The box vibrates and hums at his touch. "Show me more."

* * *

Merriweather Street is a late autumn picture postcard, all golden leaves and brilliant sunshine. The moment House and Sarno turn off Sanford (where it is hot and dry, like an Arizona summer), the air temperature drops twenty degrees and the wind whips up with enough gusto to persuade the dry, dying leaves to abandon their branches. Drifting and swirling in lazy circles, some come to rest on lawns and rooftops, while others flutter in House's path. The urge to bat them around with the tip of his cane is irresistible, and he wonders why he never noticed what cool playthings they were. Not even as a kid.

After awhile the game gets old, which inspires him to shift gears and test his new found mobility. Shuffling and kicking up the leaves is kind of cool. The loud _ssssh, sssssh! _sound amuses him and keeps this game from getting dull.

"Favorite time of year?"

"Huh?" House has almost forgotten about Sarno, who has been beside him the whole time.

"It's so fuckin' beautiful. Not too warm, not too cold," Sarno says. "I made sure they put a hammock in your yard."

"Who's they?"

"They. The minions. The ones who slave for the powers that be." Sarno jams an unlit cheroot between his teeth and waggles it fiendishly.

"How is it done?" he asks, plucking a leaf off the cane's rubber tip, testing its waxy solidity between his thumb and forefinger.

Sarno chuckles as he flicks away the cheroot, then spreads his arms, like he is balancing on a high wire. "They hitch one end to one tree-"

"Not the hammock." House pauses in mid-step, turns on his heel and indicates the neighborhood with a wave of his cane. "_This."_

"Patience, man." Sarno lifts a white-blond brow as his fingers skim over his keypad. "You're almost home."

* * *

Of course the house is a two story colonial, complete with white picket fence, wisps of smoke drifting from the chimney, a winding stone path leading to the porch. There is a swing on the porch, of course, a brass knocker on the door...

...and in the front yard is a blank wooden square that swings up and back on two brass chains. Its wrought iron stand is embedded in the crisp leaves and emerald green grass.

The air smells of woodsmoke. House closes his eyes and thinks of lacrosse, thinks of Sandy Edison daring him to go out for the last spot on cheerleading squad. It's the only way he'll ever get in her pants...so-

"She's a beauty, eh?"

"Sandy..." he murmurs. He can almost feel the swell of her breast against his palm.

"The house."

He blinks, shakes his head slowly, ridding his mind of these ancient thoughts. His temples pound; his face feels hot. It's like waking from a fever dream. Again he has been away. For how long he doesn't know.

Inside the front windows, white curtains float and dance, like ghosts sending out a silent, seductive welcome. Music accompanies the dance. Crazy rhythms, steel drums. _Robert Mitchum...Calypso is so..._

That keypad is still in Sarno's hand, like it has taken root there. The touch of three buttons opens the colonial's door.

"Go on in. Enjoy yourself. It's your vacation. Lots to do and discover." He smiles and once again House notices how those two front teeth are gray. Dead.

Just like Garrett's...


	13. Process

**-13-**

"**Process"**

Wilson sits at his desk, poring over the new case file he discovered in his inbox this morning. Sighing, he taps his fingers on his desk, forcing himself to read through Mrs. Abernathy's symptoms and past test results for the second time. He is not at all happy with himself. Today is one of those rare days when he is not in the mood to ply his trade, and it's times like these he wishes he had a team on whom he could foist the case. More for the patient's benefit than his own. But he is the department head and it is his responsibility to examine his patient thoroughly, then come up with a diagnosis. After that, if he feels a differential is warranted, he can set up a consult with the other doctors in his department.

Or he can talk to House, which, at the moment, is not an option.

He reads through the symptoms again, knowing what his next step should be but feeling no compunction to begin the process. The words shift and shimmy before his eyes, and he needs to close the file. _Give me a minute_. His whisper is loud in the quiet. In a moment he will try again.

Cuddy knows nothing of his internet findings. In the light of day they seem trivial, not worth pursuing, just crazed meanderings from a hodgepodge of weirdos wandering the planet in search of 'truth'.

_Not important._

Besides, who says House even dialed the number?

_He's at the casino, clad in shirt number five, seeing as how he lost the other four._

Wilson doesn't call Rosa, even though she has already left two messages on his cell. Something is wrong between them and it has nothing to do with House. Does she sense how everything is slowly giving way, collapsing around them like condemned buildings under the wrecking ball?

He is beginning to detest the need in her eyes and in her touch, when all he wants to do is sleep. For awhile he had himself believing this could be something strong and right and lasting.

In his head, House snorts at the idea.

Wilson winces, wondering how damaged he truly is, how Amber's death put his desire and need for a solid relationship into cold storage.

This isn't Rosa's fault; every moment he continues to pretend their relationship has staying power makes her more of a victim.

He will talk to her about it. Tonight...or sometime.

He reaches for the file but his hand drifts toward the phone instead. Before he can think about stopping himself he has already dialed the 800 number. He has the power. He can hang up before the person, machine or entity at the other end picks up.

But he doesn't.

* * *

Garrett's hands are cold. The office is a comfortable seventy-two degrees, yet his hands are like ice. He paces the length of the room, alternately rubbing his palms together and tucking his hands inside his front trouser pockets. When he is nervous it's as if ice chips have taken residence beneath his skin. He clenches and unclenches his fists to fight off the chill. Why he is on edge is not a mystery. He is well aware of why he slept on the sofa in the office last night instead of heading home.

Irie is coming.

The head of operations will arrive at 4:30 PM on Lansing One, the private jet the government donated to the project five months earlier. Government funding for the project has been generous but tenuous. No promises. No sure things. Money could be ripped away from them on a whim, putting an end to their progress and sending their latest, most promising acquisition on his way. This disturbing scenario hangs over their heads like the swinging blade of a guillotine.

Finding the best and the brightest is imperative if the Getaway project is to continue. A few notables have settled happily in Nova City, and the fact that a gaggle of interesting, productive people agreed to live there is no surprise. It is wicked cool as alternate dimension hot spots go. But simple, homespun Pleasant Hills is another matter.

Now that a brainiac is in their grasp, they need to find a way to make the doctor _want_ to stay. Persuasion takes time and effort. This one is worth the trouble.

The past five years have seen Garrett and Sarno putting their lives on hold to make this project work. They needed to succeed not only in crafting these cities, but to help Irie smooth over The Powers That Be. If she comes off looking like a champ, they have done their jobs well.

Not that Irie needs much help. She possesses charm and eloquence, is organized, versatile, well-read, can hold a conversation on just about any topic and is respected by her staff. Could the fact that she is as statuesque as a pharaoh's daughter and that her almond shaped eyes alternate from gold to sea green, have something to do with the warm welcome she receives in Washington? The honchos nearly fall all over themselves to greet her.

They wouldn't be half as enthusiastic to see Garrett with his big nose or Sarno with that thuggish fedora he wears lumbering into their offices every few months.

Garrett's cell phone blips and shudders in his trouser pocket. Irie is texting him from the airport to say her flight from New Mexico landed at Kennedy ten minutes ago.

While Sarno keeps the doctor captivated and comfortable in the house designed especially for him, Garrett needs to make Irie's arrival at the office as pleasant as possible. After a dinner at Marcel's they will head to Station One, then off to Pleasant Hills, where Irie can see first hand the progress that has been made.

Garrett is certain that like most men, Doctor House will be more than happy to make her acquaintance.

* * *

It's almost like being home. But that's the point, isn't it?

The ceilings are high, the walls wood paneled, embellished with prints of some of his favorite works: Munch's "The Scream" and Gorey's "The Gashlycrumb Tinies". Shelves filled with books and exotic glass and ceramic collectibles line the walls of the living room and study.

He hasn't seen the upstairs yet but it's difficult enough taking in what has already been offered. Sarno follows close, his shoulder practically brushing against House's as he checks his watch for the umpteenth time. House wants to ask if the guy has a hot date, but doesn't. He doesn't want distraction. He needs to stop, inhale, exhale, to classify, to separate the pieces of this strange, surreal experience.

He needs to understand.

Pinching the bridge of his nose he waits for the revelation that will make all the tiles clickity clack into place. He thinks of the mosaic on the wall of the town hall lobby, how every shiny square represents a miniscule crumb of Pleasant Hills. If one comes unglued, then what?

He needs to lean against the leather sectional sofa (facing the 42 inch plasma TV on the wall), and force himself to come up with a reasonable explanation for all this.

"Doctor?" Sarno's voice is soft, hesitant.

"Why was Wilson driving the ice cream truck?" House asks.

Sarno tilts his head, tosses a tolerant smile. "You can't shake it off, can you?"

"If I can make sense of that, maybe I can breeze through the rest."

"Why can't you just relax and enjoy? This is supposed to be a vacation."

"Tell me."

"Stick around long enough and you can ask him yourself."

House pouts and pushes away from the sofa. He experiences the slightest twinge in his leg, which he puts down to turning it the wrong way. He is not used to walking without a limp, much less without his cane, which waits in the corner by the rocking chair like an abandoned child. "This is one of those government funded experiments," he says, waggling an accusing finger at Sarno.

The sudden revelation causes Sarno's to stutter step backward, his mouth falling open as he nearly trips over an ottoman. "You-"

"Don't bother denying it or assuring me what an amazingly perceptive guy I am," House flicks a bit of fluff off the sofa arm. "I won't get the truth from you. The only one I'll get it from is me."

Sarno's face has gone as pale as the Hummel angel glowing at both of them from its place on the hearth.

Suddenly there is music. The song stylings and shake your hips rhythm of Robert Mitchum are back, wafting through the air, loud, now soft, now loud again.

"Who else is here?" House asks.

Sarno swallows hard, his eyes flitting around the room. "Just the maid," he squeaks.

"Am I'm making things difficult for you?"

"No." He shakes his head many more times than is necessary.

"Seems like I am." House heads for the stairs. He grasps the banister and readies the formerly traitorous leg to begin the trek. He plans to take the stairs two at a time and conclude the trip by propelling himself up and away from the last step, finishing it off by landing on two sturdy feet.

If the maid hadn't appeared at the top of the steps, it might have happened just that way. But the moment he sees her he gawps and almost staggers backward before gripping the banister tighter to steady himself. The room is a teeter-totter, seesawing up and back. The maid saves the day, her frightened little 'oops' putting everything right again.

But it wasn't her presence that startled him...it's who she appears to be.

She sashays down the steps, this embodiment of Stacy...Cuddy...Cameron. Something is wrong yet so thrillingly perverse about her; House feels like a voyeur in a dirty raincoat, watching Stacy's arched brows rise; as she gives him that _look_; those brown eyes narrowing, boring into his. She is magic. She knows exactly what he is thinking, even now when he is trying so hard-

_(la, la, la, think baseball scores, think grocery lists...)_

He fails miserably, of course.

The nose is slightly Romanesque, classic, Cuddy's nose, complementing the sensuous smirking mouth and high cheekbones. The hair is all Cameron, blonde, full bodied, swept back to accentuate the high brow.

_You have pretty hair..._

The more he looks at her the more he can sense other women who have attracted him, their features winking in and out like glimpses of starlight through the clouds.

_Now you see her, now you-_

"This is Misha," Sarno extends a hand toward the maid, who nods curtly and sweeps past the two men as if there is nothing absurd about this at all. "While you're here, she will be available to see to any needs you may have..."

A soft moan escapes House as he turns to watch Misha enter the kitchen. She smells sweet, honey-dipped, like a candy apple.

_She'd kill you, old man._

Articulating his thoughts is not an option. The words refuse to queue up and spew forth. So he smolders in silence, allowing Sarno to lead him upward and onward.

Later, after a swift tour of the upstairs, with its 'play' room (complete with a grand piano, video games, a wall of DVDs,and more books), a sauna, a bathroom with a marble tub and jacuzzi, Misha's voice crackles over the intercom. Guests have arrived.

He is reluctant to leave. It's comfortable in that sanctum and he can imagine spending a good deal of time wading through its offerings.

"Does she like music?" House asks.

"Who?"

"The maid."

"Misha."

"Yeah."

"You could ask her..."

He is not sure he could. The thought of conversing with her makes him as giddy as a fifteen year old on a first date.

_Where is your mind?_

"There is more to see," Sarno assures him, leading the way downstairs. "Explanations are in order, I know. You've been really cool, ultra patient."

_Ultra dazed and confused..._

At the bottom of the stairs House sees the guy with the curly locks and big nose he distantly recalls from the trip here. Next to him is a goddess. No other word seems to fit.

"You know Garrett," Sarno is saying from...somewhere off in the ozone. "And this is Irie."

The woman wraps him in her languid smile, making him all warm and comfy and so glad to be here.

"Irie," continues Sarno, "will give you the rundown on everything."

House can hardly wait.


	14. Diagnosis

**-14-**

"**Diagnosis"**

"_You, yes,YOU, could experience the vacation of a lifetime! No one is too old to enjoy a stay with Getaway. Thinking of leaving town for a while? Those grandkids or needy adult children too much to take? Well, just put your day to day grind on hold. You've come to the right place..."_

Wilson holds the phone an inch away from his ear. This way, there is less of a chance of being deafened by the calypso music and manic pitch of the vacation getaway huckster.

"_...and if you book now, you'll be guaranteed a voucher for a free dinner for two at one of ten (count 'em) TEN five star restaurants on our properties."_

This couldn't be right. House would never have stayed on the line long enough to listen to such drivel, much less book a vacation with this loudmouth buffoon. The worn looking _The Road Less Traveled _ magazine is open on his desk. For what is probably the hundredth time, he skims the ad with its sinister sounding promise and mystical overtones.

"_Think of it...warm, tropical breezes, a vodka gimlet at noon, shuffleboard, free tango lessons..."_

No. This has_ got _to be wrong-

"Getaway vacations." The voice at the other end of the line startles him. "The vacation haven for the young at heart. This is Beatrice. How can I help you?" Such a nasal whine; she sounds like a clothespin is pinching her nostrils shut.

"Eh, hi, Beatrice." He taps the end of his pen against his desk, then swivels his chair so he is facing the wall. "I got your number from _The Road Less Traveled _magazine."

"That's very nice."

"Yes," Wilson clears his throat before going on. "Is yours the ad that reads, 'It's not what you think' and 'Not many have what it takes to be part of what we do'?"

"Yes sir."

"Oh."

In the background, the same irritating calypso music plays on. Steel drums accompany a singer with strong, steady tenor. The guy has some serious chops.

"It's quite a colorfully worded ad, don't you think?" Beatrice says.

Wilson blinks, stares at the phone, then blinks again as he places the earpiece against his ear. "It doesn't seem to jibe with your spiel for sunny afternoons filled with shuffleboard and tango lessons."

"What's that, sir?"

"I mean your ad sounds like something from "The Twilight Zone." He switches the phone to his other hand, thinking maybe he shouldn't have elaborated. Maybe he should have just hung up. House will be back soon, spouting off tales of Atlantic City, g-strings and late night booze-ups. Wilson has no idea why he is bothering with any of this.

Beatrice mumbles something, her words going missing beneath an undulating sea of exotic rhythms.

"It would be nice to get at least a hint of what's going on here."

"Well," Beatrice begins, suddenly sounding like a temptress, a seductress. "It's all how you look at things, Dr. Wilson."

"I...see."

"Would you like to sign up for our Fort Lauderdale trip? The rates are especially good this time of year."

"I'm sorry...no."

"We-ell." The pinched voice returns, sounding somewhat disheartened. "If you change your mind, my name is Beatrice and I'll be happy to help you with all your vacation needs."

His throat is suddenly parched; still he manages to croak, "Thank you, Beatrice."

"No, thank _you, _Dr. Wilson."

Like a man in a trance, he slowly swivels his chair back around and replaces the phone in its cradle. He rises to his feet, shrugs on his lab coat to look the part of the confident, assured department head he needs to be for the rest of the day. He is, after all, a professional. People depend on him.

_You never said your name but she knew your name. How can that be? Try to think of all the ways that could be..._

Right. Beatrice knew his name but he never told her his name. He almost reaches for the phone, almost calls her back to ask her. But...no. She probably wouldn't pick up anyway. Or if she did, would probably disavow any knowledge of their prior conversation.

_Say what....sirrrr?_

Laughter or something close to it bubbles in his throat until he sends it packing with a sharp cough.

He exits his office and leaves all thoughts of strangeness to languish on their own for awhile. He is sure he will rejoin them in good time.

* * *

Eloise has gone home for a much deserved rest. But it wasn't easy convincing her to leave Felicia. It took Cuddy the better part of a half hour to convince her to go.

David, the eldest of the two boys brought in, suffered a fever early this morning, which his parents had predicted within a day of its onset. Under the care of Taub and the nurses, it was brought down without a problem. Now that the boy is resting comfortably, all eyes are on Eddie. He isn't due to spike for another week. But who knows? The malady is infuriating, unpredictable...right up House's alley.

With all the fevers down for the moment, the team can now concentrate on putting its efforts into getting to the root of the problem.

The parents have stopped asking for House. Cuddy assumes they are loath to downplay the efforts of his team. At this point, they will take what they can get. But she can read them, see the disappointment in their eyes as another test is given, as another go round with needles and bloodwork leads to more dead ends. The frustration in the air is palpable. She attempts to emphasize the fact that since these doctors were handpicked by House, they are more than capable to do his work. The parents nod and shrug, more to shut her up than to agree. To say more would only serve to test their patience. So she leaves them in the hands of House's capable colleagues and goes off to tend to other matters.

The morning passes and the afternoon steps up to the plate. After lunch, Cuddy heads back to her office, there is paperwork to tend to, a budget meeting coming up. The world does not revolve around House. Really, it doesn't, she thinks, slowing her step as Wilson approaches. His mouth is pinched, his gaze is faraway, like he is receiving a communication from somewhere 'out there'. He might not have noticed her had she not stood directly in his path.

"How are you?" she asks, taking in the shadows under his eyes.

"I called them," he says with a sigh, his gaze drifting to the ceiling.

"Who?"

"Getaway Vacations." He shakes his head and meets her eyes. "You think House has suddenly developed a penchant for shuffleboard and tango lessons?"

"Stop it." She places a hand on his arm. "The world does not revolve around House."

"It's good to try to think that way." He tells her with a humorless smile. "But you know as well as I do, it doesn't work."

* * *

Time flows differently in Pleasant Hills.

Irie tells him this as she takes him to a part of the house he has yet to experience. He doesn't realize he is smiling until he sees his reflection in the glass door to his office. The legend "Gregory House, M.D." has been etched into the glass. This day has gradually become more interesting than annoying. Here is an office with a desk and a computer, a Worlds Of Warcraft game waits for him next to the hard drive.

Cool.

He likes Irie. She is the only one who will answer the questions he tosses out without seeming put upon. So far he has asked her her name (_Irie Tomyesku)_, if she is married (_no)_, her title (_Head of Operations)._

"How long have I been here?"

The clock on the tells him it is 4:05. It seems like it's been 4:05 forever, or at least since Irie and Garrett arrived. The slants of sunlight through the blinds have not shifted since their arrival, shadows have neither lengthened or waned. But his body clock is off. At one point, after enjoying Misha's light meal of chicken and rice, exhaustion settled into his joints, but he now seems to have found his second wind.

"Two days, First World time," she tells him as she pushes open his office door. "About eight hours here."

"First World?"

"Yes."

"Explain," he says.

"Have patience, Doctor."

He gives her a hard stared. "So that twenty four hours-"

"Look." Her smile is genuine. It lights up the room before she turns on the desk lamp. "You can leave any time you want."

"That's not what I've been told."

"I'm telling you. You're a doctor; you're probably needed back there."

"Okay." He rubs his chin, considers this. "So...do I just click my heels and just keep repeating 'there's no place like home?"

"Just see Sarno," she laughs. "He'll void the waiver, get you back home without the requisite ruby slippers."

"I'm in no hurry. I'm on vacation," he says with a slow grin, taking in flow of her body line as she moves through the room, straightening books, glancing at papers in the inbox. Finally, she stops her constant motion to throw the switch on a small silver box on the desk. This powers up an expansive screen on the wall.

Throwing him a sly look, she asks, "Want to see something cool?"

"Why does the ice cream man look like Wilson?" he replies, approaching the screen. "Why does the maid look like every woman who ever had the good fortune to get with me?"

"We like our guests to feel comfortable."

"My leg doesn't hurt." When was the last time he reached for his pills?

"No, it sure doesn't."

"Why?"

"Why question what is good and right and benefits you?" Her hand is smooth and cool as she slips it into his. "Just enjoy."

On the screen is a long metal table bathed in eggshell colored light. The source of the light isn't...anywhere, which is somewhat disconcerting; something is wrong. The hairs on back of House's neck prickle.

"Mortuary?"

"Examination room."

House gives her a sinister, sidelong look and hisses in his best German accent, "Issit safe?"

"Why don't you find out?"

She releases his hand and he takes a step. Reaching one hand out, he almost stumbles over his own feet as he discovers the screen is not a screen at all. No real solidity here. It is mesh, like mosquito netting melting around him as he moves. One more careful step and he is in the room, the not unpleasant heat of those eggshell colored lights bathing the top of his head, his shoulders.

_Why are you not surprised?_

Irie is no longer visible through the mesh, but he is not alone. On the table is a patient. Her pale skin and blue hospital gown seem to glow under the relentless lights. Head down, she stares at her hands resting in her lap; her legs dangle off the side of the table.

"Sixty-two year old woman." A male voice proclaims from...somewhere. "Presents with double vision, uncontrollable tremors in her head and hands."

The owner of the voice fades in, like the ghost of Christmas past, He wears a lab coat that flaps open to reveal a formidable paunch as he scribbles symptoms on a white board.

"She suffered loss of balance, slurred speech. Her first doctor ruled out a stroke, then diagnosed Parkinson's, which he soon changed to MS..."

"Idiot," House murmurs, watching a team of physicians materialize behind Master Chief.

"A second doctor went along with the MS diagnosis, and a third physician told them he had no idea what was wrong..."

"It's not MS." House strolls past the patient, glares at the whiteboard, then switches round on his heel. "The onset was too quick, too severe. Was there an MRI done of the brain?"

"Yes."

"Lesions?"

"No."

"Not MS." Now he was in full diagnostic mode. "Have you tested for Vitamin E deficiency? Encephalitis?"

"Not yet..."

"The engraved invitation's in the mail."

"We...uh."

"You're useless," he grunts. "Get with the program. If you worked for me I'd fire you."

More doctors appear, seeming to float through the blanket of darkness and light. Watching, waiting.

"Do a panel of blood tests, check for unusual antibodies," he tells them all.

The doctors scatter like his team does when he issues a command. Scuffling footfalls fade into the darkness; House doesn't expect to see this particular group of physicians back here anytime soon. He prides himself on being difficult. Most likely--hopefully--he has scared them off.

The patient eyes him beseechingly. He wonders if anyone has actually examined this woman or was she simply shoved into an MRI machine without even being-"

House's eyes widen as the realization slams him upside the head. She's not here. His fingers brush skin that is only air thickening into the shape of her form, mirroring her physiology. His hands press nodes and glands that are probably somewhere far, far away. He can feel her presence, her form but...shit! Doesn't anybody look at what's in front of them? This basic bit of doctoring has been left to him.

Despite the strangeness, he manages to do the exam, motioning for her to remove her thin, grey hospital gown. She barely reacts to his touch but the more he moves his hands over this semi-holographic image, the more detailed are his findings. It seems he is able to discern many things from this Star Trek version of a medical exam.

Closing his eyes, he 'sees' there is a growth in her left breast. This might have something to do with anti-Yo antibodies the doctors will find when they do the tests.

He knows this; it is as much a certainty as his name and gender.

"Paraneoplastic syndrome," he murmurs with his eyes still closed. The patient is experiencing a group of degenerative disorders. They were triggered when the body's immune system mounted a response to a cancerous tumor somewhere inside the body--

--the tumor he 'sees' in her left breast.

He takes one step back, then another. His patient raises her head slightly as if she is waking from a long sleep.

"Get me out of here." His words tremble as they leave his lips. He hates how afraid he is, the feeling that he is in way over his head. It's amazingly, impossibly interesting, yet...he is seriously spooked.

"Thank you for your help, Doctor." The guy with the paunch under his lab coat stares at him from just beyond the lights. "Your participation in this differential was immensely helpful and much appreciated. We hope you will remain in Pleasant Hills and consider becoming a member of the Consortium."

One more step back and the examination room melts away; he is in the office again in the white colonial with the porch and the leaf strewn lawn.

Irie's knowing smile infuriates him. He feels as if he is a specimen under glass, every move studied and scrutinized, analyzed until it has no meaning. Like a word uttered over and over until it is just a series of sounds...

She winks. "Pretty damn cool, eh?"

A thousand smartass responses are considered then discarded.

"Yeah," he mutters, giving in. "It is."


	15. Surprises

**-15-**

"**Surprises"**

She decides to surprise him. Dropping in unexpectedly seems like a good way to spice things up, give the relationship a much needed kick in the rear. What they have together is too new to be suffering from this stifling ennui.

Was it her fault? Was she too emotionally demanding? Nathan used to give her that speech when he was immersed in the cold wash of depression. In grief counseling, Rosa was assured that this was not so. The counselors were experts, sure, but how could they know what really went on? Half the time she wasn't sure what was true and what were crumbs of what she wanted to believe.

When James left last night, without even attempting an explanation, she knew something needed to be done to remedy the situation. Her mother taught her how to put a notion in a man's head and let it eat at him like a tapeworm.

Rosa never tried to get at Nathan with subtleties. He was too headstrong to fall for any wily feminine tricks. But James might be more open to what she has planned. Her mother's assertion that a woman always had the upper hand in a relationship is now beginning to make a lot more sense. In the end it will be Rosa's call whether to salvage the relationship or let it moulder and die.

Today will be the test. To set the plan in motion, she started the day by doing something she never does. She called in sick. In a way, it is not a lie. She is sick...at heart.

Not for the first time, she blames Gregory House for her woes, for James's preoccupation. It's like fighting a being from one of Michael's cartoons. A sinister entity with powers of persuasion and seduction far beyond anything her womanly wiles can overcome.

Forcing herself to hum along with the radio, she turns down the road that will lead her to Princeton-Plainsboro.

It is only a few miles from her house to the hospital; a twenty minute drive if she doesn't get bogged down in traffic. Today she gives herself extra time to deal with possible lunchtime gridlock. She bought a new dress for the occasion. A black number, suitable for daywear but allowing just a hint of cleavage to show. It hugs her ass, accentuates her hips. It has become her partner, an ally in wartime.

_You're desperate. Do you really need this man to complete you?_

She has an inkling that she might, which is not something she is proud of and definitely not something she would admit to her mother.

It hasn't always been this way. In the beginning, when they were both still in counseling, James put forth a solid effort, focusing his attention on her, on _them, _which made her happy. More often than not she cautiously let herself believe that this relationship might have a chance.

Now James's preoccupation with House was ruining something that started out good and bright and promising. Whatever she had with James was fading fast, hanging on to a cliff edge by its fingernails.

_He's poison._

Perhaps this is a sign that she should give up, leave James to wallow in his self-made misery. It is clear he is an enabler, the way he fosters his friend's bad habits. He is not even angry at House for disappearing without a word. He is just filled with worry and an inexplicable sense of guilt.

_Something is wrong with that, my dear. _

Rosa parks the car in the hospital lot and makes her way to the entrance, aware of the appreciative gazes she receives from a security guard, two doctors in scrubs and an orderly. Men find her attractive. Of course they do. She possesses an exotic sort of beauty, and her walk holds a promise of something more than a quick kiss goodnight. But she has rarely been promiscuous, and wouldn't consider such a lifestyle now when there is a child in her life. No, James should consider himself fortunate she has chosen him. _She _has chosen _him._

As she makes her way toward the elevator, she spies James walking in the opposite direction, an attractive brunette at his side. They are immersed in conversation. Rosa is far enough away where she can observe them without being seen. His companion holds her back straight, her stride is quick and authoritative. Yet she is dressed like a trollop, or a hussy as Rosa's mother might say. Tight pink sweater, tighter black skirt, stiletto heels.

James holds the cafeteria door open for her, laughing at something she said. His shoulders have lost that tension Rosa assumed was part of his make up. His stress has retreated to the place it languishes until Rosa's presence calls it back again.

She wanders nearer to the door and watches through the glass as they buy their lunch (_he _buys their lunch), then find a table by the window. There they sit, eating, chatting, gazing out the window.

James has never looked this relaxed since she's known him.

Rosa turns on her heel and leaves without looking back.

* * *

It is still that 4:05 twilight time when Irie leaves him. Before she goes, she again gives him the option to void the waiver and head back home.

"After that impressive display of Star Trek sick bay meets Medical Center you're trying to get rid of me?"

"No. This is your vacation. If you want to opt out early," She shrugs. "it's up to you."

He considers this, thinks about what is waiting for him in New Jersey before telling her no. He will at least spend the night or what might pass for night around here.

This seems to please her. She gives him a warm smile and takes his hand, telling him to enjoy the house, to look around. Dark corners might yield surprises, distractions. It might seem sinister but he likes the sound of it.

He senses his enthusiasm is not lost on her.

Now Irie is gone. Sarno, Garrett and Misha might have taken off too. He can't be sure but it doesn't matter.

_Nothing is real._ _Nothing to get hung about..._

He grabs his cane from where it leans against the bookshelf, twirls it twice as his gaze touches the file folder on his desk.

.._.sixty two year old woman_...

.... _Paraneoplastic syndrome..._

The medical team just beyond the wall need him. Of course they do.

The differential put him in mind of a dream sequence from a 60's psychological horror flick he had once seen.

Of course it did.

_it's all inside yourself..._

The Powers That Be were crafty (oh, yes they were); in the beginning they really had him fooled, but now he is convinced that this is a total sham, a jigsaw puzzle made up of oddly shaped pieces of his psyche. Nothing is real. This is simply a dream or hallucination brought on by the deep brain stimulation he underwent almost a year ago. He never had a doubt there would be repercussions from the procedure. Now, at last, they have arrived, hauling their overnight bags, preparing to spend some quality time with him in his Pleasant Hills colonial.

He sighs. He is content. It feels good to have it all figured out, as invigorating as a blast of arctic air after a heat wave. He can deal with this now. Speculation comes easy: he has blacked out in either Princeton-Plainsboro or at home, his mind turning on him, finally deciding to get its own back. In awhile he will awaken, IV needle in his arm, concerned faces looking down at him. "I'm not dying," he will growl, keeping a firm hold on a smile that trembles to be set free.

Now that he's figured it out, this experience might be kind of a kick. Here in Pleasant Hills he can commiserate with those who are products of his imagination, those he dreamed up to help him find his way back.

(_click your heels and think there's no place like home)_

He runs one hand along the smooth mahogany desk. The wood shines with a deep, rich luster, a sure sign its owner has found success in his chosen profession. Not just anyone gets a desk like this. Also on the desk, set up nicely just for him, is a silver pocket watch with hands that run counter clockwise, an eraser that has the snout of a pig and a sugar cookie shaped like a large economy size Vicodin, wrapped in clear plastic. The note on the wrap suggests he take one before bedtime. He has no problem with that. Who knows what sort of dreams it might bring.

He decides to take a tour of the house, as Irie suggested. Observe, explore. Who knows? It could be a kick.

* * *

Upstairs he checks the closets he missed the first time around. He finds suit jackets and jeans on hangers. Nikes stand straight and true in the shadows like soldiers lurking, waiting for the command to charge.

_Of course..._

Look deeper, he tells himself as he leans in, as his hand reaches through the forest of denim and cotton. His fingers brush the curve of what turns out to be a guitar case waiting for him like a lover in the darkness.

He grips the handle at the same time he is hit with a wave of giddiness. It's all good. Laughter creeps up on him and escapes before he can do anything about it. He pulls the case from its home. It's his now.

_A man could get used to this._

Sure, he could. He has a maid, who doubles as a cook; a woman he can ogle, touch every part of her with his eyes and feel comfortable doing so. He has a big old house, a guitar, a mystery, a puzzlement. Is it real or is it...

Wilson is the ice cream man. The thought jolts him, makes him want to forget the comforts and everything sucking him in, and just...get the hell out.

But, hey, there's no pain. His fingers tighten around the crook of the cane he hasn't needed since he arrived. No pain.

He enters his bedroom, which has a slanted ceiling, a king size bed and a cherrywood dresser. A second plasma TV hangs on the wall, a stereo system sits beneath it, metallic black and winking green lights; it is quality stuff. He can tell before even giving it a careful scrutiny that it is top of the line.

_Only the best for the new doctor on the block._

By his bed is an open window looking out on the day that is finally, reluctantly giving way to night. Time is moving again. 4:05 has now become, perhaps, 6:00. He seats himself on the edge of the bed, rests the guitar case beside him and opens it to find the six stringed beauty. It is an Ovation, all soft curves, and a sound like a ringin' a bell. He wets his lips and stares at it for a moment, as the breeze wraps itself around him like an embrace, smelling like the dying leaves and the yellow grass, woodsmoke and distant bonfires.

High school and Sandy Edison.

He shivers from the unexpected chill but doesn't move to close the window. Instead he picks up the guitar, strums it experimentally before his fingers set off on their own to find a John Lee Hooker riff.

In the yard next door is the woman he noticed when he arrived: the woman hanging clothes on the line, while her boy cavorted around, shouting a greeting loud enough to rattle window panes.

The woman sits on a tire swing, which twists and turns with the whim of the breeze. Her mouth is set into a small sad smile, her eyes stare at nothing. Her boy sits on the back porch, which is illuminated by the yellow light above the door. His knees are bent, bracing his book. As he reads, two fingers twist and twist a lock of his hair.

They shouldn't be here, House thinks, narrowing his eyes. He is part suspicious, part bemused. They live on that street by the green bench, which is, if he remembers correctly, on the other side of town. He thinks about the long trek he made to the town hall, after which he and Sarno took that lengthy stroll to Merriweather Street and this house.

His fingers pick out an old folk tune: "500 Miles" or "Where Have All the Flowers Gone". He's not sure which. At this point he's just along for the musical ride. His thoughts are all over the place, scattering like the leaves in the woman's yard.

Time passes, again; he is not sure how much. The temperature has dropped. Now it's cold enough to make him think about finding a jacket, since knows he will be going out to visit the woman on the swing.

He trades his guitar for his cane and heads off down the hall, stopping long enough to take a look in the closet. Reaching into the darkness again, he finds a black leather riding jacket embellished with silver studs on the cuffs and up the sides. Usually he refrains from wearing such ostentatious outerwear, but this somehow seems ju-ust right. He leans his cane against the wall, shrugs into the jacket and is halfway down the stairs before he realizes he's left the cane behind. After a moment's hesitation, he takes the remaining stairs two at a time, and leaves the house without it.


	16. Truth

**-16-**

"**Truth"**

Lunch with Cuddy had not been the stress free half hour he had anticipated. It started out well but quickly slid down a slippery slope.

With a chuckle, he told her about the 800 number call and how Getaway Vacations could not possibly have enticed House to fall for their line.

_But they knew your name..._

Caller ID. All the cool kids have them.

_It seemed like more than that, didn't it? Beatrice, the Getaway Vacations gal, seemed to know exactly who you were._

That's what she wanted him to believe. Make him think she was an old friend, a valued acquaintance. Beatrice had a job and did it well.

Cuddy taps her fork against her plate, jolting him from his thoughts. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Nodding, he sips his water and reluctantly meets her eyes. "Sure."

"You didn't hear a word I said."

"I-" Her eyes narrow at him and he has the sudden urge to return to his office and stay there until he is less distracted by what's in his head. But he sighs and gives in. "I...guess not."

"I said, I still think he went the casinos and trollops route."

Wilson decides to allow his suspicions to take a back seat for awhile and agree. No sense involving Cuddy in his unusual, somewhat disturbing, mental meanderings.

With speculations out of the way, they can leave everything behind, chat about the innocuous: the weather, a few choice bits of hospital gossip. But as lunchtime nears its end, Wilson can't help confiding in her; with some reticence, he asks her advice. What should he do about Rosa? Emotionally he is growing more distant from her and it isn't something he can shrug off.

She sets her plastic fork beside her half eaten salad. Leaning forward slightly, she asks if Amber is the problem.

"In a way." He doesn't want to talk about Amber. Lately, her ghost has taken to sitting on the edge of his bed at night, watching him sleep. He spies her through half closed lids when he thinks she can't see. But she does. She smiles at him. That's when the overwhelming sense of guilt hits. Maybe he doesn't want to to make this relationship with Rosa work. Maybe it's too soon...

"Maybe it's too soon," Cuddy says. "You gave it the best you could. You need to be honest with her, James. No sense letting her think this is going somewhere, when you know it's not."

He folds his hands on the table and lets out a long breath; his shoulders slump. He is relieved. Cuddy's confirmation of what has been bothering him puts him in a better place emotionally; he feels better than he has for days.

After breathing a few words of thanks, he lifts his head and spies Rosa at the cafeteria entrance. She is in the process of turning away. After a moment she is down the hall and gone.

Wilson meets Cuddy's eyes again. He thinks about House, about the file folder waiting on the desk, about what the rest of the day might bring. But he doesn't think of Rosa at all.

* * *

House is glad he found the jacket. It is leather, fleece lined, more like a flack jacket than riding gear. He likes the feel of it, the weight of it on his back. He carries himself differently than he did when he was forced to endure the limp. The jacket enables him to affect the confident swagger he would try for but ultimately fail to achieve when he was crippled.

The woman doesn't seem to notice his approach, as the toes of his sneakers stir the leaves. But the boy is alert. He raises his head, smiles as he rises to his feet. His book _thumps_ against the wooden porch as he lifts his hands over his head. He waves them in an arc, like an ardent fan at a sporting event.

"_Welcome!"_

House digs his hands into his pocket. His eyes are on the woman who continues to cling to the ropes that secure the tire swing to the metal pole. She licks her lips, her brow creasing in confusion as she gazes at her surroundings, as if she has forgotten where she is.

"This isn't where you live," House says.

Her gaze shifts towards him slowly, cautiously as a smile floats across her lips. "Of course It is." Her voice holds a vague southern twang. "You need to ask questions before you make assumptions."

She seemed younger in the daylight; the night's shadows etch lines in her face, around her eyes and mouth. Her cocoa colored skin looks like dark chocolate cream.

"You were across the street from the bench when I arrived." House takes two steps closer and wraps his fingers around the pole as the woman continues to swing up and back and around. The metal is cold enough to make his palm ache, but he doesn't release his grip. "Now you're here."

"Are you on vacation or are you a new resident?"

"Me first," he says. "You haven't answered my question."

"Welcome! Welcome!" The boy is running back and forth, The force of his footfalls causes his book to fall from the porch and into the dirt and leaves.

"Chas," the woman says quietly. Her tone holds a warning, yet is quiet, lilting. House almost expects her to burst into song; the anticipation causes a shiver to run through him. She seems like the proverbial dream walking. There she goes, moving, floating barefoot across the leaves. The boy slows at her approach, then stops, watching like a boy-king as she kneels before him. His hands are in hers as she speaks to him. He listens, smiles and nods, but his eyes find House and open wide, ensnaring him in a doe-like stare.

"You...haven't answered my question," House says again. He is not about to be put off by how surreal this night has become.

"You'll find out soon enough, if you decide to stick around," she says, watching as the boy retrieves his book and settles in again. "Otherwise what does it matter?"

He takes another tentative step toward her, then stops. "I can't decide if I want to stick around if I don't know where I am."

"You're in Pleasant Hills."

"Shit." He turns on his heel and starts back toward his house.

"Wait."

After one step more, he stops. Force of habit dictates that he look for his cane, If he could lean against it, with a bent knee, hip jutting stance, he could emphasize his impatience, his ire. But he knows it waits for him by the bookshelf, abandoned, yet loyal 'til the end. Nevermind, he thinks. There are other ways. He thrusts his hands into his jacket pockets instead and whips around, throwing the woman a venomous scowl.

"Either talk to me or don't."

"You won't believe me anyway. You'll think you've been drugged, that you're dreaming. They all do." She hefts herself onto the tire swing again and dangles her feet so her toes just brush the leaves. "What's your name?"

"Greg."

"Jayda," she says, smiling over at the boy.

House stands over her, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Tell me," he says softly.

Expelling a long breath, she runs her hands up and down the ropes. "You're dealing with the government. And like all government projects, there is subterfuge, secrets and an end result that might not benefit you at all." With a tilt of her head, she asks, "You've only just arrived?"

"You know that."

"Did you know that four days have passed back there since this morning?" Jayda hitches a thumb over her shoulder.

"No." House shakes his head in disbelief or denial. He can't be certain which.

"It's true. I keep track of these things." Her smile fades as she continues. "Now consider how much you have already been given that you would be reluctant to leave behind."

His throat tightens as he recalls the holographic diagnostics room, the TVs, the games, the guitars.

His mobility.

"They want you for something. That's why you're here. You knocked. They opened the door. Now you're trapped."

"I can leave whenever I want."

"Sure, okay." She nods. "Who told you that?

His throws her an apprehensive look. "Irie."

"Oh, you've met the big guns. Wow. You must really be something special. They don't come out to play unless it's a major dog and pony show." Jayda's eyes twinkle with amusement. "What are you, the savior of the free world?"

"I'm a doctor."

"You must be a damn fine one." Her gaze again flicks over to the boy, who is twirling his hair, immersed in his book. "They'll make you think you're free and clear to do what you want. But it's a sham."

"What sort of poison is frying your gray cells?" House shifts his weight from his left foot to his right. It doesn't hurt. "Booze? Pills? Marijuana? Prescription meds?"

"None of the above." With a haughty quirk of her chin, she smirks, pushes herself back with one leg and swings. "You know that song that says, '_You can check out any time you like but you can never leave'?"_

"I'm not-" Confusion creeps in like fog across a lake.

"I'll give you the deep dark secret. Not that you'll remember much of it after tonight." A shadow of worry crosses her features, like a ghost drifting over a sun drenched plain. "This is the government's way of diluting the earthly populace, easing the strain, lightening the load. There are just too many people back there, living longer, crowding each other. Space stations and populating the habitable planets were their first options but it's taking too long to get those things going." Her brow furrows as she continues. "So the geniuses in charge decided about a quarter of a century ago, while dickering around with spaceships and moondust, that shuttling folks off to another dimension might be a quicker alternative."

"Ecstasy? LSD?" House makes an attempt to keep his voice steady. It's not working.

"They want the best and the brightest, the ones who will make these cities thrive." Her laugh holds little trace of humor. "Judging by the swell digs you fell into, they must have hit the jackpot."

"I'm going home," he says. "Tomorrow."

"Think so, huh?"

"Yes."

"Positive thinking is good, but you _are_ going to forget things," Jayda goes on, sliding her gaze toward the boy. He leans against the door, asleep with his book by his side. "They'll mess with your head while you sleep. Before you know it, you're not going to want to go back. Before you know it...you'll wonder why you ever thought to leave."

Already these notions have crept into his head; has he been compromised, had Sarno or Garrett or Irie gotten to him already, placed their fingers neatly inside his gray matter, shifted things around, like mosaic tiles on an expansive off-white wall?

A niggle of fear creeps through his gut. Suddenly everything Jayda has said sounds reasonable and right. "How do you know this?"

"I know," she says, "because I helped put the whole thing together."

* * *

Jayda suggests he follow through on his plan, futile as it may be, to head down to the town hall first thing in the morning, tell Sarno to get him out of Pleasant Hills. Those dark eyes flash as she grips his arms, telling him, _commanding_ him to remember her words.

His curiosity is burning, a bright blue flame growing brighter and stronger with each quandary thrown at his feet; he wants to ask Jayda why she is so eager to come to his aid. He is a stranger and she is not the driver of the damn welcome wagon. What happened to turn her away from a project that was at one time important to her? And why hasn't she taken her own advice and gotten out?

She releases him with a shove, as though that flame has singed her too; it seems she is well aware of his thoughts and those questions she is not about to entertain.

House turns, leaves her standing in the yard with the sleeping boy and the gently spinning tire swing.

He returns to his house (he will need to stop thinking of the place as his if he ever hopes to be free of it). Scents of cinnamon and apples and spices fill the rooms. The smells make his mouth water; they are oddly heady, intoxicating, compelling him to make tracks to the kitchen to discover what special treat might be in store.

_someone knows you well...how your mind works....what 'gets' you...._

On the butcher block table is an apple pie, its crust is sugar drizzled, glazed and browned to perfection, enticing him to move closer. A single slice has been cut just for him: a sumptuous triangle waiting on the sort of delicate blue and white plate Wilson might keep in his cupboard. Beside this rests a silver fork on a linen napkin. Milk in a tall glass completes the scene.

His thumb rubs his forefinger in anticipation of what is sure to be the best piece of pie he has ever eaten. It is too golden, too _beautiful_ to be anything less.

He seats himself in the quiet kitchen, resting his hands on the red and white checkered tablecloth, breathing in time with the slow tick...tick...tick of the wall clock. 7:30. It is only 7:30 but it feels much later. Exhaustion is gradually setting in; he feels like he has been awake for days.

_...tick...tick...tick..._

His fingers brush the fork just as a gentle hand lights against the nape of his neck.

"I made it just for you." The voice is silky satin in his head.

Something, someone drifts past him. Now there is a physical presence to accompany the throaty declaration. She sits across from him and tilts her head, holds him fast with Stacy's cynical, yet desirous look, her lips part and now she is just west of Cuddysville.

Suddenly he doesn't know what to do.

So she helps him along, leaning forward so her blouse hugs her tighter to accentuate her nipples, the soft roundness of her breasts. After filling his fork with warm crust and apples and sugar, she guides it into his mouth.

It is impossibly delicious, melting like molten sweetness on his tongue. Closing his eyes, he savors the feeling of the syrupy warmth making its languorous path down his alimentary canal, down, down, down to fill him.

He opens his eyes and blinks, feeling like a sleepy child. But he is a man...his body assures him of this as Misha takes his hand and leads him to bed.


	17. Comfort

**-17-**

"**Comfort"**

At the end of the day all he wants to do is go home. Weariness assaults him like a thug in an alley, beating on him until all he can do is lie on the cold ground and take it.

The day's work was absorbing, challenging but not enough of a distraction to push back the worries that have gathered like sports fans at the deciding game of the World Series. Waiting, watching and wondering.

Unfinished business needs tending to. Rosa's aborted visit needs to be dealt with. Tonight. Not tomorrow. It would be so much nicer to go back home, have a few beers, a burger and let the world drift away until morning.

But those problems will still be around tomorrow, festering like open wounds in need of a good dose of antibiotics.

He turns the key in the ignition, the motor purrs, like it is offering its own brand of comfort. Before he sets off for Rosa's, he pulls his cell from his jacket pocket, glowers at the screen, then tries House's phone. Again. Third time today. When the voicemail responds with its smartass query of "don't you have better things to do to than give me grief?" he almost tosses the thing out the window.

He takes the long way to Rosa's house, bypassing the highway and heading down scenic backroads. It gives him time to think, to consider what he is going to say.

Space is what he needs. Time alone. After Amber died there was always someone around, either to bring him food or engage him in conversation, assuming that normalcy could steer his thoughts away from his grief. He never had the heart to tell them how miserably they had failed.

When Rosa came along, she was an immediate soulmate, someone whose grief matched his own. They never needed to talk to communicate that understanding, which was where the attraction was born.

Of course she is beautiful. But she holds a different beauty from Amber's. Rosa's skin is coffee and cream, where Amber's was milk white. Rosa's hair falls around her face in thick brown curls, Amber's hair was strawberry blonde, fine and smooth as silk.

He can't think about this anymore. It makes his throat clench and his gut ache.

He realizes, as the early autumn's yellows and golds rush by, how unfair he has been to Rosa...and to himself. He should never have let the relationship get to this level. Neither of them are in any position to handle it.

It needs to end; he will have to be the bad guy and do the deed. In some strange way, the thought makes him feel better, like a ten ton weight will soon be lifted and life will go on as usual...

...as soon as House returns.

* * *

_One down..._

Eddie's parents have taken him home. The boy was none the worse for all the prodding and poking he has endured, but his condition has not improved. The fever is sure to return, as will Danny's and Felicia's.

It is only a matter of time before Danny's parents also have that quiet conversation with Dr. Cuddy, then trundle the boy out of there, back home, back to square one.

Eloise is lost. She plies Felicia with books and videos, plays Chutes and Ladders with her on the rickety tray table by the bed.

She knows she is stalling, is well aware the doctors are at an impasse, which isn't their fault, yet somehow she wants to believe it is. Maybe they are not as smart as Dr. Cuddy insists they are. In her heart, Eloise is an optimist. She believes an answer is forthcoming, and is loath to leave without it.

_where is Dr. House...?_

While Felicia sleeps, Eloise roams the corridors that hum with quiet life; soft rhythmic beeps and the drone of a TV news report float by as she moves past the reception area into the elevator bank. She presses the down button and immediately bursts into tears.

Closing her eyes, she leans against the wall. In her head she sees herself, those thin shoulders shuddering with the force of her sobs; it's like she is observing herself from a window high above. Surrendering to repressed anxiety and apprehension is not her style; she has always been the strong one. Such is the lot of a single parent. To her left the elevator doors slide open and she can count the footsteps as tears slide down her face. Someone is talking to her, touching her sleeve.

Reluctantly she steadies her breaths and opens her eyes to find the nice Indian doctor. He gazes at her with concern, the corners of his lips curling in that kind, boyish grin.

"Don't give up, Eloise," he says gently, then shrugs. "At least not yet."

She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and a can't help return his smile.

_Three more days, _she thinks. She will give this three more days before she takes Felicia home to start the search again.

* * *

He shouldn't be here. Garrett paces before the bed, glowering at his charge, who knows nothing of his annoyance.

This was supposed to be his down time but Irie needed to head back to New Mexico, and Sarno claimed he was running on three hours sleep. It is easy to forget to wind down here, unless you're diligent about maintaining a strict schedule. Acclimating your body clock to second world time requires great self-discipline-something which Sarno lacks.

But all was not dour and aggravating for Garrett, since Marcia had finally agreed to take the plunge and join him here. She is waiting in Nova City at the Wylekirk, one of two luxury hotels in the downtown area. She will have to entertain herself for a while but it's not as if she will be without diversions. The virtua-vision screens will allow her to take a travelogue tour of Rome, Greece, London and Paris in the time it will take Garrett to finish what he needs to do.

While in Nova City he cannot forget to keep his dental appointment. Repeated trips through Station One portals rot teeth, implants or no. This is something that, with all their technology, they have yet to overcome. Garrett is certain he will need to a get a complete new set of uppers, not a simple touch-up like last time.

Lucky he's not paying.

On the bed, the doctor snorts and shifts, eyelids twitch, the wires attached to his temples brush his cheeks. He is dreaming. REM sleep. Delta waves on the screen are strong. That screen is usually hidden behind paneling just above the headboard, which slides open with a touch of a button on Garrett's keypad. There is no reason to hide it now.

Smiling a sultry smile, Misha enters the room, a cup of espresso in her hand; her blue-black hair flows down her back. She no longer wears her Shift-wear, the feather light 'skin' that holds the image and personality of the person (or persons) she wishes to be. Once the Shift-wear is placed over her own skin, she 'becomes' whoever embodies it. Shifters are highly trained, in much demand and well compensated for their efforts.

Garrett throws her a knowing look. She didn't need to seduce Dr. House. They could have easily made him believe she did. But Misha is a stickler for detail, for insisting on making the experience as real as it possibly can be. Judging by the way she is glowing and the sated feline look of that grin, she enjoyed the experience as much as the doc did.

After their romp, she added a light sedative to his tea assuring sleep would take him quickly.

She hands Garrett the espresso and tells him she's off, back to the old Victorian haunt she chose for herself on Morningside. Her husband, (the algebra instructor at Pleasantville High) is home, waiting.

Garrett watches her leave and wonders if the algebra teacher is at all aware of his wife's obsession with details, but he doesn't go there. Doesn't want to make waves. The only waves he is interested are the ones on the screen: the ones belonging to Doctor House.

* * *

"Good evening, Doctor."

The doctor responds with a quirk of his lips and a heavy lidded stare. The Phenobarbital is just about kicking in.

"How are you feeling?" Garrett seats himself at House's bedside, runs two fingers along the IV tubing. The drip is his friend; it will keep the doctor in a twilight state long enough to complete this stage of the project.

"Dunno..."

"But...you're feeling good."

"Mmm...no." House sighs, shakes his head. "...sleepy."

"That's understandable."

"Wanna sleep." House's head lolls to the side, which prompts Garrett to dig a thumb in the hollow just below his shoulder. Hurt and surprise fight their way through the drug to register dimly in House's eyes.

Garrett frowns, his gaze shifts to the empty espresso cup on the nightstand. So many here practically live on the stuff to keep themselves going. Wired now, nerves tingling, he tries to muster some enthusiasm for what he needs to do, but it's difficult. He doesn't get off on this part of the job. Sarno enjoys it. If exhaustion hadn't gotten to him, he would be here right now, making progress. And progress was key. Garrett draws in a long breath, lets it out slow, thinks about Marcia, the Wylekirk, nightlife in Nova City, and urges himself to get through this in the quickest most painless way possible.

"First we talk, then you sleep." Garrett feels a sudden pang of remorse for the man on the bed. The doctor didn't ask for this; he was seduced, putty in their hands, felled by needs, wants and pleasures.

"I'm sorry," Garrett can't help murmuring. But it has no effect. House's eyes are slits of drugged accusation, which will soon close again if Garrett doesn't soldier on.

"You're in a very good place, you know." His tone is soft, friendly, companionable. "You've never felt better. Your pain is gone. The world is interesting, fresh and new."

House blinks at him. It is a look of confusion, of surprise. Of disbelief. He yawns.

"Your weariness is not a bad thing," Garrett explains, holding one hand out like he is offering an entreaty. "It's...like weariness at the end of the day, after a job well done."

"Sleep...," House murmurs.

"Soon," Garrett checks the clipboard on his lap, makes a notation in a grid before continuing. "After we talk about your future."

A small flicker of something...fear, apprehension, regret, appears in House's eyes before vanishing abruptly into the blue.

The waves on the screen roll and dip.

"There is a track behind the high school, you probably haven't seen yet." Raising his brows, he nods and leans in to whisper, "It's a beauty. Three miles. You can run it."

"No...muscle death."

"You _can _run it." Garrett is not a scientist. He knows something about Chronic Pain Nullification but is still unsure how it is that the lame can walk here, how the IQ of the feeble rise to 'normal' levels and beyond. He just knows what _is._

"_Misha..."_

The mention of the woman's name flummoxes Garrett for a moment. He clears his throat, folds his hands over his paperwork as he regains his composure.

"What about her?"

House closes his eyes and for a moment Garrett thinks he has lost him. But the tear making a slow trek down House's cheek tells Garrett something interesting is going on here, something that will give him an edge in this predominantly uphill battle.

"_Mi-sha."_

Garrett refers to his notes. Three women play an important part in the doctor's life, three women Shifter Misha embodied when she bedded him.

"Stacy Warner...Allison Cameron...Lisa Cuddy...Misha was all of them...," Garrett says, a small smile planting itself on his lips. "You want her again."

"No." House's shoulders lift slightly. He wets his lips, turns his head away.

"As long as you stay here, she's yours. A wonderful prospect, isn't it?"

Another tear slips down House's cheek. Sighing, his gaze grows distant, as though he is searching for a hole in the void. An escape.

There is a light at the end of this tunnel, coming up just over the rise. Garrett sees it, goes for it. He wants this to end almost as much as he suspects his charge does.

"Already the memory of your life prior to this, of what went before is fading like an old photograph, floating like a leaf on gentle breeze," he says. "It's like...that was all a dream and now you're back where you were always meant to be."

House lets his eyes drift shut. His mouth falls open. The waves on the screen slow.

"This is your here and now, Dr. House," Garrett whispers. "It is where you want to remain, where you feel comfortable and safe. Where nothing hurts."

"Sleep," House mutters.

Garrett snorts as he rises to his feet; he's had enough of this. It's too bad they couldn't leave the doctor's decision to the doctor instead of being forced to 'help' the process along.

He winces slightly, giving his charge a careful once over before getting to the task of removing the wires from House's temples, the needle from his arm, He will return the screen to its place behind the wall, clean up the IV apparatus and the gauze, the tape...

...as if none of it never existed.


	18. Destination

**-18-**

"**Destination"**

Tonight is _his _night, Wilson decides after giving the matter a bit of thought. He had every intention of facing her and do what needed to be done, but at the last moment he switched gears.

_All the cool kids call it chickening out, _House chides him from somewhere off in the ozone.

Wilson does his best to ignore the zingers that bat around his subconscious like ping-pong balls. They are stress inducing, irritating, a sampling of House at his worst and most caustic. No, tonight he will leave them behind, give himself a break, take care of his own needs and not concern himself with what House says or Rosa thinks.

Leaving Rosa in the dark, while heading off to take a long, relaxing drive sounds like a plan. But it only takes five minutes of pondering the consequences before guilt forces Wilson to do the right thing.

His left hand steadies the steering wheel, while the right flips open his cellphone. These simple actions help the spring wound tension in Wilson's gut to ease. And as a reward for his worry and fret, his call is routed to voice mail. All the better! A quick message is what he leaves: _Can't make it tonight_. _Something came up. _

_Lame._

And just like that he's done.

But this subterfuge is unlike him. Experience has taught that the best way to face a problem is to deal with it head on. He can get away with hiding from Rosa for a night. With House, that constant source of irritation and aggravation, brutal honesty is the best way of dealing, of communicating.

Wilson wonders (not for the first time) who gave him the job of being House's conscience. He feels like a beleaguered Jiminy Cricket, seated on House's shoulder, spewing out truths House would rather not hear.

_Why do you care?_

Yes, why? House sure isn't thinking about him. That _wascally ol' wabbit_ is probably at a craps table right this very minute, praying for a hot shooter to take the game home.

But not Jimmy Wilson. Not he of the pressed trousers and the pocket protector. A man who rarely gives into his baser instincts. However.

_How-evah!_

_Lordy Hallelujah, _he thinks, _I am free at last._

Or at least for the night.

He pulls onto US-1 N/Brunswick Pike. His plans are not clear. At first he thinks he might just hit the nearest Blockbuster and pick up a few hot new movies to spend the night with him. But when the store comes into view, something compels him to keep going...

...going...toward New York. He realizes this as he merges onto NJ18 toward I-95 and the New Jersey Turnpike. Turning back is possible, of course. Anything is possible.

But not at all probable.

* * *

_Leaning one palm against her chin, elbow against the wood, Amber gazes down at him, like a scientist studying a lab rat. She tosses out a cynical, throaty chuckle. The silky ends of her hair brush his lips and brow. "You used to be such a fighter," she says as shadows ebb and flow behind her: snakes entranced by a charmer's tune. "What happened to you?"_

_Something, some steel wool like substance in his throat prevents him from speaking louder than a whisper. "Dunno."_

"_Your mind, Greg." She shakes her head slowly, causing her hair to tickle his hand. He wants to grab those tresses, pull her in here with him, where they can share the inevitable consequences of his actions together. "Always thought you were too smart to fall for smoke and mirrors." Behind her the shadows tire of their dance and form a reasonable facsimile of Wilson. He is a mottled gray and black figure, a man of stone cursed with a terrible grimace and steel pebble eyes. One shivering hand rises and grasps the lid of this box, this coffin. Slowly, he pulls it shut, the dark closing around House like a velvet shroud. _

_Amber chuckles again from beyond the blackness. "You deserve everything you get." _

He gasps as he wakes, feeling like he might have slept for a year or a Rip Van Winkle lifetime. The dream is leaving him quickly, but it will haunt him later, he is sure of it.

Sleep still has a hand on him; his thoughts attempting gamely to burn through the fog but not quite making it.

Maybe, he thinks after a few moments, he will peer between the blinds and find something completely different than what was here yesterday. What will he do if the leaves and the yard and every last bit of the autumn pastiche are gone? What if he has been transported...again? It's possible.

Anything is fuckin' possible.

_Misha..._

His mouth is dry. He can still smell her on him, some kind of musk; a scent of a sinuous exotic beast. Not unpleasant, that scent. It brings back the release, the moment she became all of them intertwined, their hearts, minds, limbs, breaths working as one. Prior to that she was each one in turn: Cameron, all wide eyed and earnest in her pleasure giving, Cuddy, fierce in her passion, riding him hard...then easing...easing finally into Stacy, who knew him best, knew exactly what he liked. He recalled how his hands traveled down a body that was first firm and lean, then fuller in the breasts, heftier in the ass, slimmer in the hips, brown eyes, blue eyes, green.

He lifts his hand to cheek, recalls the taste of salt on his lips. The cane is by the window. The blinds are down but sunlight bleeds through the slats, like a welcome, a greeting, a tranquil good morning.

He hates it because it's normal. And nothing here _is _normal.

Right then he decides he wants to go back, never thinking he would ever yearn to return to Princeton, to Baker Street.

But he does.

_Misha. _This time, the thought of her nearly overwhelms him and he needs to grasp the bedpost to brace himself.

"Oh, no you don't," he mutters to the paneled walls and the soft watercolors in their frames. After a couple of deep breaths, he feels more steady on his feet, knows he can continue on with his plans to cut this vacation short.

_Maybe it's been done for you...maybe..._

With a shaky hand, he lifts the blinds and is heartened to see he is still here. The yard is still leaf strewn and the wooden plaque continues to sway up and back on its hinges. The lettering on the plaque is more distinct now, etched deeply into the wood so the calligraphic characters are blackened, like a brand.

_Gregory House, M.D._

Relief washes over him, like a warm tide. This nod of approval from the town council shouldn't make him feel this good.

_Maybe someone's been messing with you, boyeeee..._

And maybe somebody has a wicked bad sense of humor, he thinks, switching round on his bare heel and stumbling toward the bathroom. He needs to pee, needs to wash away the odd taste of the long night.

He shuts the bathroom door, then leans against it and closes his eyes. For a moment, the world shifts and turns. From far away he hears the sound of steel drums, of a singer with a raw, natural feel for the music, crooning the sunny songs of the Caribbean.

_Calypso is just...so._

* * *

_Oh, the weather outside is frightful..._

There is more than a chill in the air, he thinks as he heads up the block. Fall has scurried off, abandoning him, making room for winter. Since he set off for the town hall, the sky has darkened, the fluffy white clouds have turned into an angry mob, slipping into something a bit more...dangerous; they are now the shade of gunmetal and probably (impossibly) possess the hard, cold consistency of a firearm, as well. His feet skitter over the leaves that are slippery with winter's first frost.

An icy wind whips in from the north. It wrenches the remaining dead leaves off the trees, whirling them around before sending them in to instigate the attack. They build up an army, sending out orders for the leaves on the ground to rise up and swirl in gradually widening eddys around House, his legs, torso, head.

The world grays out. Moaning, he tilts back his head, as the whirlwind imprisons him. The wind is brutal, biting at his chin, his cheeks, his fingertips. The sharp edges of the leaves are like miniscule whips, stinging his face, leaving scratches on his brow, the corner of his mouth. He allows his fingers explore the terrain. They return to him bloodied and trembling.

Lost.

He moves his feet but no, he's not getting anywhere. It's like running in place...or taking one step forward, two steps back. Panic sets in, gripping his gut with cold, slippery feelers. In the air is a tang of ozone, a whiff of electricity. Everything is buzzing, everything is gray. Is this what constitutes eternity? Is this how it's fucking going to end?

Then...

It all goes away. Somewhere, a director must have yelled 'cut!' causing the gray to immediately dissipate and the sun to shine again.

Before him stands the town hall, so proud and serene, throwing a welcoming smile down at him. Warm light glows through the windows telling him all is well. Peachy. He is calm now, languorous almost, happy to have made it through the storm to his destination. But this is not his destination, not really...

...since the town hall is now his neighbor, having taken the place of Jayda's house and the house next to it. It seems Pleasant Hills has succeeded in giving him that proverbial slap upside the head once more.

Interesting? Sì. Compelling? No.

More than ever, House wants to return home.

Or so he thinks, as he heads up the steps, as he struggles to ignore the impish fiend breathing in his ear, asking him where he might find somewhere as intriguing as this in that other place. Where could he live that would consistently provide him with this racing, heady intoxication?

_Haven't touched a drop, officer._ _I swear._

A tinkle of bells announces the arrival of the ice cream truck. It rolls by with languid ease; its floppy haired driver is enjoying an orange icee as he meets House's gaze. Smiling. Wilson is smiling, chin shiny from his late morning treat. It's not really Wilson, though.

_It could be._

The bells tinkle again, before fading as the truck rolls on.

"Hmmph." House grunts, reaching into his pocket, like he is searching for his car keys. It is an unconscious action that convinces him, yes, he really does want to hit the road. Alas, alack, no keys. Instead his fingers curl around something rubbery and pliant. He pulls it out and scowls at the piggy snout eraser from 'his' desk. In another life he might have tossed it to the ground, stepped on it and kicked it off into the weeds for good measure. Here he simply returns it to his pocket and enters the building.

In the town hall lobby he finds a hatless Sarno, leaning on the wall adjacent to the mosaic masterpiece. His hair is a spiky brush cut, shiny with mousse or pomade or some such girly shit House would never think to use. Sarno fiddles with his keypad thing, his frustration rising with each punch of a button.

"Shit on a stick!" he whines finally and rolls his eyes. He huffs out an impatient breath before allowing his attention to settle on House. "You ever have problems with gadgets? It's like they're out to get us, I swear. Sometimes I think they're the ones in control and we're the fuckin' zombies following along."

"Maybe they hate you." House offers, eyeing the tiny squares that make up the replica of the town on the wall. "Maybe they plan to suck your blood dry while you sleep," Moving closer, he notices the houses are numbered and arranged in some sort of color coded order: an order that would surely make sense only to The Powers That Be.

"Man, you should be in a much better mood than this."

House whips round to find Sarno staring at him, grey eyes widening with a sudden wicked bemusement.

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. You're on vacation." Sarno pales and fidgets with the keypad. Its glow pulses in a heartbeatin' rhythm as it squawks a complaint. "Just...figured you might be having some fun."

"And why is that?" House takes a step toward Sarno at the same time Sarno stutter steps backwards.

"Isn't that what people do..." Sarno offers him a tremulous grin. "...on vacation?"

"I'm done with vacation," House says. From the corner of his eye he notices the twinkling mosaic tiles again, each one sending out a wink just for him. "Get me out of here."

"You sure?"

Anger roils and churns in House's gut. Tempering it with a cynical barb doesn't seem to be an option, so he sets it free. "You're asking me if I'm sure, as if something is going to go 'click' in my head to change my mind." Head spinning, heart racing, he continues. "You're nervous. There's a bead of sweat shining on your temple, a few more above your lip. You're supposed to keep me here. Eleventh hour guy. The last gasp saloon on the way home."

The speech has not done its job to intimidate. Instead it appears to have given Sarno a boost, a shot of confidence he lacked earlier on. His shoulders straighten as he steps forward so he almost nose to nose with House. "My man, why the hell are you so eager to get back there?"

"It's where I live."

"Doesn't have to be."

"It is."

Sarno tilts his head, narrows his gaze. His smile comes slow and easy; he is enjoying this exchange. "Gonna pack up my troubles, toss away my ills. Oh, there ain't nothin' nowhere, no-how like Pleasant Hills, " he belts out in a surprisingly pleasant tenor. "Sometimes we have a good ol' knees up at the McDuffy's Place down on Fifth and Main. That little ditty always ends the evening." He winks. "Join us sometime."

"Don't think so, _my man_."

"You're making a mistake." Sarno smirks, wagging his keypad at House. "Some night when you're tossing and turning in that big lonely bed of yours back there, you're going wonder why you left. You're going to miss the way the days here go on and on and on. You get used to it, you know. You learn to _appreciate _it."

The corpulent security guard trudges past them. His shoes squeak as though there are mice being slaughtered beneath each ponderous step. After tossing Sarno and House a somber one finger wave, he rounds the corner and is gone.

Sarno returns the wave then runs his tongue across the dots of sweat above his his upper lip. "Okay, it's game time."

"Not interested."

"Name three things you keep on your desk...in your office."

Against his better judgment, House digs around his gray matter for a response but discovers he can't seem to find one. He can't remember...

"Think." A tinge of sympathy colors Sarno's words. "How about that place you call home? Let's go for something simple. Is your dresser on the right or left side of your bedroom?"

"Left."

Sarno's voice is gentle, lilting, like at any moment he might begin to croon a lullaby. "You sure about that, my man?"

House averts his gaze and stares blankly at the tiles, then abruptly, helplessly stumbles forward. He manages to put his arms out to regain his balance, cutting short his momentum before careening into that ju-ju-be rendering of the town. The closer he gets the more the pieces seem to melt into one another.

Now...his leg hurts. Just like that. The familiar ache must have taken a vacation of its own and is now back to join him on the contemplated journey back. His right hand takes it upon itself to reach down, massage the offending scar through the denim.

"You'll be needing these," Sarno is beside him, cane in one hand, Vicodin vial in the other. "where you're going."

Reluctantly House reaches out to accept the offerings.

"Guess you made your choice then," Sarno says.

"Guess so."

The keypad in Sarno's hand blinks and squeals a complaint as he aims it at the mosaics. A miniscule emerald green square races through the veins and arteries of the town map. Beneath the town hall the ground shivers. Outside the wind gusts, House imagines the yellow-brown leaves being tossed and whirled around and around and-

-he is on the bench, the emerald green bench that wasn't here earlier (neither was the town hall, my man). Everything shifts, everything changes.

Beneath his palm rests the crook of his cane, the pill vial in his front jeans pocket presses against his thigh. The wind picks up now, bringing with it a calypso beat, a catchy ditty House recalls his mother singing around the house.

'_Matilda...Matilda...she take my money and run to Venezuela...'_

Closing his eyes, he remembers every word, every note. It's nearly impossible not to let the music move him. He taps the rubber nub of his cane in time as...

..._run to Venezuela..._

...an explosion of candy pink crackles behind his lids. It thrusts him forward, illuminating the way through the self imposed darkness...

...and suddenly he finds himself returning the cool gaze of the blond kid is behind the record counter. "Yes, I'm _that _Tony", is emblazoned on the kid's badge of courage. He hands House a rectangular brown paper bag and smiles.

"Be seeing you," he says.

There is nothing to say, not one worthwhile comment to drag from his head and lay down like a wager at a poker table. He can only grab the package and stumble dazedly out the door.


	19. Free

**-19-**

"**Free"**

He finds a cafe in the heart of the Soho district, orders a cup of espresso and a blueberry scone. Yes, he is really the maverick, eating breakfast fare at dinner time, while all around him there are salads and soups and grilled chicken sandwiches being consumed.

This really is a freeing respite; Wilson is glad he took it.

He settles back in his chair and people watches. Without regard for tomorrow or what Rosa might think or what depravity House is immersed in at this very moment, Wilson does what he damn well pleases.

His favorite couple is a Yuppie twosome who look like they've hooked up for the sheer aesthetic pleasure of it. His suit complements her dress so perfectly, they might be auditioning to be the next Barbie and Ken. It's interesting. They hardly speak, just peruse their menus. After the waiter takes their orders, New, Improved Ken scrutinizes the screen of his cell while Bitchin' Barbie Babe checks her makeup in her pocket mirror.

Wilson renames them Harry and Isabel and wonders when they will realize that they are sick of each other.

He finishes his coffee, picks one last crumb from his plate with his fork before heading off to explore more of Soho.

House would probably enjoy this sort of thing, Wilson decides, strolling through the village on this crisp fall evening. Shop windows are filled with interesting items of varying usefulness. Pen knives, feather boas, a t-shirt emblazoned with a ragged depiction of the American flag, a teddy bear bank, a skeleton head.

Canes.

The canes are what compel Wilson to stop in front of the window on the corner. "Wow," he breathes, since It seems someone has taken great pains in setting up a truly impressive display: canes of ebony, ivory, beechwood and other more exotic woods have been laid out to resemble Chinese fans in an emperor's palace. Wilson has the sudden urge to go inside and make one his own. The black walking stick with the gold plated crook is classic yet subdued. How would it feel to stroll across the street, twirling it at his side? The thought is so random it makes him giddy. But when he thinks of House and how it must be to really need the thing, the notion immediately loses its appeal.

He continues on his way, refusing to beat himself up too badly. After all, this is his night. Now, here's a surprise: the theater across the street is hosting a John Ford film festival. Tonight's film, according to the marquee, is "The Searchers". Wilson has a thing for this film of the old west, where a Civil War scarred John Wayne goes on an obsessive search for the niece abducted by the Comanche.

Standing to the side of the ticket booth, Wilson scrutinizes the original 1956 lobby cards in the window. How good it would be to lose himself in the sands and hills and dust strewn western towns.

He plunks down his $8.50 the cashier and heads off to another world.

* * *

She really should leave for the day. The office lights are off; a soft film of grey light bleeds through the half closed blinds. The janitor will be around soon to empty the waste basket beneath her desk and run the vacuum. His job, at least in this room, is not much of a challenge. Cuddy prides herself in keeping her area pristine. Occasionally, she might grab a rag and some polish and do a bit of dusting. It helps her think. An orderly place begets an orderly mind, her sister used to say.

She really should leave. But she can't seem to move from her place behind the desk. A flow of humanity moves past her office; these people are oblivious to how her gaze follows them. She might as well be invisible. An interesting concept, since she is the most high profile person in the hospital.

Her thoughts wander as she sits in the half-light, observing the patients, the caretakers, the occasional grief stricken passerby. This cross section of humanity doesn't move her today. She is tired.

Eloise is taking Felicia home tomorrow. The last of the fever kids, as House might have dubbed her. If House were here, mother and daughter might not be leaving. House would convince them to stay until he came up with something tangible, something that might make sense and lead them to a resolution of the problem. His obsessiveness might have given them hope. It might have also sent them running. The look in his eyes when he is driven can be terrifying to the uninitiated.

A ghost drifts by her window. It is a shadow of a man, hunched slightly, his limp pronounced. He moves as though he is lost, as if this unfamiliar world might just swallow him whole if he dares to stop.

Cuddy's brow creases in drowsy confusion. Her lips move, forming the name she would like to utter but doesn't think she should. It might jinx the moment, break the spell.

After a moment, she places the flat of her palms flat on her desk and pushes herself to her feet.

The shadows have grown restless now, reaching out, sliding over chairs and knick-knacks, the sofa and chairs, putting a claim on her office; the only illumination creeps in from the corridor: buttery soft light pooling on the blue carpet.

Her steps are purposeful as she moves through these shadows and heads for the door. She dips one hand into her purse, searching for the keys she will use to lock up. One hand touches the door handle as she peers into the outside world again.

"House," she mutters, opening the door.

* * *

After finding a seat in the darkest corner of the balcony, Wilson settles in to watch the movie. The opening credits roll and already he and his bag of Hershey's Kisses are transported. The old west reels him in. Guns, horses, leather chaps, spurs that jingle, jangle jingle. Now he feels better. His disenchantment with Rosa, and his worry over House's disappearance take a seat in the opposite corner of the theater, as if they don't even know him. They'll join him after John Wayne rides off into the sunset. Until then...

_Awww, what the hell...?_

Someone has decided to park themselves in the seat next to him. The theater is about half full and there are plenty of other seats for the taking, but this person, this perfumed, dark haired beauty, has decided to plant herself here.

From the corner of his eye he sees the woman's shy, small smile. He quirks back a grin before making a valiant attempt to return his attention to the film. For some reason he can hear her breathing; the shift of her breasts beneath her jacket distracts him.

_Shit._

So he is not surprised when half way through the gunfights and gold and purple sunsets, she rests one hand on his thigh. The taste of Hershey's Kisses is still strong and sweet on the back of his tongue as she moves her hand north, as John Wayne draws his Colt.

_Oh..._

That simple declaration seems to say it all. There is not a whole lot more he can mutter or mull over, since is blood rushing toward his crotch like an ambulance barreling toward an accident scene.

He closes his eyes as the pounding of horses hooves and the war whoops of Indians become the soundtrack to the beauty's ministrations. Wilson grits his teeth and shifts in his seat, jerking his hips to comply with the rhythm of her hand.

_oh..._

And then she's gone, having had the courtesy to wipe him off, pack him in and zip him up prior to spiriting herself away.

..._fucking oh..._

On the screen, John Wayne is smirking, swaggering, like he knows the deep, dark secret in the last row of the balcony. "Someone teach ya?" he drawls.

This is too funny. The ridiculousness of the situation slaps him on the back, urging him to let loose, to provide an exclamation point for the oddly wonderful release. In response, laughter percolates in the center of his chest, bubbling and rising until it explodes from his lips. A hundred snake-like 'shushes' fill the theater, which makes the situation that much more hilarious.

_What would House do?_

Wilson is still chuckling when they come for him. Two brutes shine their lights in his eyes and lead him downstairs, shoving him out into the chilly autumn night without a word.

Reality grasps one hand, guilt the other as he begins the walk toward the parking garage. By the time he gets there he is sober, somber and knows exactly what he needs to do.


	20. Disoriented

**-20-**

"**Disoriented"**

He knows she's there, watching through the plate glass. He purposely left the blinds open so she could better observe him sitting silent and still in the half-light. Closing them wouldn't have deterred her from playing the nosy, caring boss lady/friend/fantasy stripper/hooker/fuckbuddy, anyway. That last part was mostly in his head.

_Too bad, Cuddy, too bad. _

And closing the blinds would not have deterred her from bursting into his office unannounced; if anything, it would have spurred her on. He could do without surprises right now. His records are still in the bag on the desk. He rests one hand on top of it. Is he assuring himself the package is his? That it's real? That it has substance?

His other hand rests on his right thigh, which, at this moment, is not his friend. Not even close. It throbs and spasms and burns, despite the three Vicodin he dry swallowed ten minutes ago. By now the pain should have decreased by half, but no. It's just not happening.

_all in your mind, old man..._

He would much rather be home, half lying, half sitting on that well worn leather sofa,TV droning, a blanket over his legs, a half-full bottle of bourbon on the coffee table, just within reach.

Yeah, he would much rather be home. It's just that getting there is the problem.

The door behind him opens. He hears her footfalls. He knows that walk, that purposeful, don't fuck with me click, clack, click. Then...nothing.

"House."

His head bobs, his chin bounces against his chest. His thoughts meander another few moments before a sudden rush of adrenaline causes him to jolt upright. A realization hits him as his breath clicks in his throat, as his heart races like the favorite at Santa Anita. His subconscious was working on stuff beneath those rambling, conscious thoughts of home and bourbon and comfort. In his hand is a pen, which rests on a wrinkled sheet of Princeton-Plainsboro stationery. Upon closer scrutiny it seems he has drawn a somewhat detailed (albeit sloppy) street map of Princeton.

"What are you doing?"

The map looks alien to him. Wrong, somehow. Narrowing his eyes, he peers closer. Merriweather Street is nowhere to be found. He left it out. Because...

..._because..._

"I got lost."

"What do you mean," Cuddy says, rounding the desk. "lost?"

He runs his tongue across his lower lip; his brow furrows as he struggles to comprehend what is going on in his head. The task is daunting. The air seems too thick here, intruding on his thoughts, causing his leg pain to rise and swell, traveling up, up, up to his temples. Yellow leaves swim before his eyes, so bright they make his pupils contract. The fingers of one hand tighten around the pen, making a fist and pounding the desk, the pen point landing just shy of the precious package of vinyl.

He hardly realizes he's done it until the slice of pain in his hand tosses a signal to his muddled brain.

_Hurts, Buddy, It really, truly does._

Cuddy is directly in front of him now, kneeling so she is looking into his eyes. "House." Her voice is low and steady. "Where the hell did you go?"

He smiles at the memory of sunshine and trees, an ice cream truck, a dancing boy. But like dead leaves whipped and tossed across a stretch of cold pavement, the smile skitters away. The feel of the pen in his fingers revives him, the way he is pressing, pressing hard enough to make a hole in the paper straight through to the wood, is not right, not natural. Not _him._

"We were worried," she says.

"I started out fine," he says with a sense of calm that belies his tangled thoughts, "then I couldn't find my way home. So many street signs. Ever notice the street signs, Cuddy?"

"Of course..."

"Ever try to remember the ones you pass while you're driving?" He winces, presses his palm against his ruined thigh. "It didn't matter which street I turned down. They were all dead ends." Shrugging, he scribbles another line on the map. "Sounds like shitty poetry, bad karma, bad...something."

"What happened to you, House?"

"Vacation, Cuddy." He tips his head, tosses her a wink that holds not a trace of humor. "Did me a world of good, can't you tell? Oh, wait a minute, you're just glad I got out of your hair for awhile. Doesn't really matter where I went or what I did."

"What...did you do? Were you out on a binge?"

"Where's Kutner?" Suddenly, more than anything, he wants answers.

"He's with a patient, someone you should see."

"I need to see _Kutner."_ His determination is like a living thing that won't be soothed until its hunger is quelled. It's obvious from the bouquet of sadness, fear and acquiescence in Cuddy's eyes, she knows it too.

"Okay, okay." She rises to her feet and smoothes her skirt. If he were feeling better he might have enjoyed the view.

He grabs his cane, then snatches the makeshift map off the desk. Handing it to her, he asks softly, "Is this right?"

"I thought-"

"Is this right?" His voice cracks, which summons up a Cuddy tear. It clings to the corner of her left eye before rolling down her cheek. "Is this how I get home?"

After giving his work a moment of scrutiny, she looks up. "No. It's not." Her cheeks shine from the tears now sliding down her face, now touching her lips.

"Make it right," he says, pushing hard on the crook of his cane and rising to his feet. "Then take me to Kutner."

* * *

Garrett is not in a good mood. It is as if black clouds have cast a deep pall over his affable demeanor. He is able to weather most issues tossed at him. Today is different.

His free time is at a premium. Being able to enjoy the long days and nights with his wife was like finding gold at the bottom of a murky well: a surprise that comes up infrequently, if at all.

They had been relaxing in Nova City's Wylekirk Manor, the classiest joint in town, as Sarno might have put it. It was late afternoon; he and Marcia were enjoying drinks on the patio outside their suite. Everything was free: the liquor, the accommodations, the enticing array of accessories left near the jacuzzi adjacent to the king-size bed. Those accessories catered to both his and Marcia's sexual proclivities. Nothing overly kinky: leather restraints, French ticklers, warming gels.

Garrett was initially reluctant to wear the edible briefs Marcia surprised him with until she displayed wonderfully inventive and rousing ways of making them all gone. He should have known better than to second guess Marcia when it came to sex. She taught him everything he knew.

The call from Sarno was not totally unexpected. When had the weasel ever been able to handle a problem on his own? A fiasco always started with Sarno and ended up in Garrett's lap. Garrett supposed he could complain to Irie, but where would that get him? Nothing like being branded a whiner or complainer to set you back three rungs on the career ladder to the stars.

Since Sarno couldn't handle a simple thing like a Temporary Ousting on his own, Garrett was forced to interrupt his respite and intercede. In the end, after the 'problem' had been taken out on a gurney, and transported to Santa Mil, a livid Garrett forced Sarno to the side of Jayda's house, out of the Service's line of sight. The weasel had acted like a swaggering, pompous fool during the entire process, tossing out orders, treating Garrett like the slimiest piece of detritus in the trash.

This was unacceptable. _This _was the end of the line.

Sweating despite the chill in the air, Garrett got in Sarno's face. "Never even think to ask for a favor again if you want to keep your nose attached to the rest of your butt ugly mug."

Sarno's eyes widened. His mouth moved; the tip of his tongue touched his upper lip, then retreated.

"You don't get it, do you?" Garrett pushed the heel of his hand into the weasel's chest.

"It's your job to be here when I need you," Sarno croaked.

"Three strikes, Sarno. One...you couldn't manage to keep the doctor here. Two...the woman's been Ousted." He put enough pressure against Sarno's breastbone to make the weasel groan. "And three...you couldn't keep your damn fool mouth shut."

"Rule 67-2 states suspicion of a former officer of the company betraying the code must be reported to Services."

"You might as well have stabbed her in the heart." After one final shove, Garrett whipped round on his heel and stormed off.

Now he sits on the last transport shuttle back to Wylekirk, cheek resting against the cool glass as the garish billboards and neon signs toss out flickering, provocative winks. He wonders if Marcia is still awake; she is still not acclimated to the seemingly endless nights. It will take her body clock time to become accustomed to the vast differences in how hours flows here versus...there. By that time she will have to go home.

The solution is beyond him.

But Marcia is not his main concern. She is easy to please with endearments and a loving touch. No, his main concern is Dr. House. Sarno should have never let him go, despite the fact that the doctor requested an out. Garrett could tell by the look in the doctor's eyes that he might have stayed. Just another round of Phenobarbital might have turned the want into a smoldering, irresistible need.

Garrett has one thing going for him the others do not. He is patient. As he exits the transport, his thoughts flow like golden starshine drifting over the Nova City skies. Hands on hips, he exhales softly and stares, entranced, at the show. It is the first time he has seen this particular design. Little fireworks, brilliant cascades of comets and diamond lights. Here...then gone. The designers always offer up something to surprise and delight. To his surprise a smile arrives unbidden; the sparkling display has given him hope.

He gazes around the sparsely populated station. A few drunken stragglers wander by. One of the licensed "Party Pals" approaches and shoots him a pleasure buzz on his neck with her taser. He shivers, tempted. She is a beauty. He knows this one; he recalls taking her up on her offer the night depression almost pushed him off the muddy edge of the shuttle tracks. He probably owes this one his life. Tonight he waves the sign of refusal, then hails a jetty that will take him back to the hotel.

In the end, he thinks, it will all work out. Pleasant Hills will have their physician. Just give it time, his inner voice drifts through his head. Eventually those visions of fall afternoons and cloudless blue skies are sure to overpower Dr. House and call him back again.

* * *

Kutner quietly but adamantly denies House's accusations, and House can't help but believe him. In his current state, no way he could have pulled off a prank of such magnitude.

Really... he looks like shit.

Normally Kutner is fastidious about his appearance, like a good doctor should be. Now it seems he hasn't seen a mirror or a razor...for quite awhile. House can't venture to guess how long, since time flows differently here. It is an extraordinarily alien sensation. Interesting, yet uncomfortable, like some oily creature has its feelers roaming under his skin.

Kutner's eyes hold a touch of fear, and House knows this case has slipped away from him; he also knows Kutner has no idea how to get it back. Kutner's fingers brush the end of the blanket, his dark probing eyes never leave his charge. The girl in the bed doesn't notice or doesn't care. She is immersed in the first or second Harry Potter book (House always gets them confused), while the mother eyes House hopefully. Maybe, _finally, _here is someone who can help.

House hasn't agreed to listen to the details of the girl's malady; Kutner enlightens him anyway. The symptoms strike a chord somewhere in the vast wasteland of House's muddled brain.

"Unexplained, cyclical fevers," House mutters, wending his way over to the girl. He puts a hand to her forehead, presses her glands with the tips of his fingers. She gives him the barest look of acknowledgment before returning to Hogwart's.

"Has she been tested for Juvenile rheumatoid arthritis?" he asks Kutner, tapping the tip of his cane against a table leg in rhythm with the words.

"Yes." Kutner holds a file folder toward him, which he ignores.

"Cyclic neutropenia?"

"It's all in the file."

"Familial Mediterranean fever, Behçet disease, hyperimmunoglobulinemia D syndrome?"

"Yessss...."

"See, _this_ is why I hired you." House says with a heft of one brow and twirl of his cane. "Having fun?"

"It's all in the file," Kutner says with a weary sigh.

"How about...mmm," House taps his chin with the crook of his cane. He is beginning to feel a lot better. "tick-borne relapsing fever?"

Obviously stymied, Kutner responds with a slow shake of his head.

"Check for that." House is already heading for the door, disregarding Eloise, who raises her hand like an anxious student with the question of the day. "If the tests are negative, take out her tonsils."

He doesn't look round to see if this last remark has made an impression. There is no need. He knows the mom and Kutner are gawping after him like they've just experienced a spiritual awakening.

After making two wrong turns and nearly ending up in a supply closet, House finds his office. In the half-light he sees the crumpled street map waiting on his desk like a piece of bad news. He doesn't like the map. The fact that he had to draw it makes those alien feelers dig in with a bit more gusto.

He takes one step toward his desk and feels it then, a sharp twinge that tells him,_ your leg pain is on its way, rollin' down the tracks on the 3:03.  
_

Digging in his pocket, he finds his keys and a pig snout eraser. He lays them both on his desk beside the map and stares at them awhile. The eraser snout seems to flare and snort and suddenly he is back in that room with the patient and the white lights and the table..._and your hands passing through her, feeling the wrongness in her, the heat of that sickness under your fingers..._

The leg pain intensifies, like strong hands, boxer's hands, have wrapped themselves with vise-like power around his thigh.

_forgot about this, didn't you, old man? forgot about lots of things...._

...and he is falling, his leg turning the traitor again, collapsing beneath him. He reaches out to grab something, anything that will stop him on his way, but all he comes up with is the pig snout eraser. It _breathes_ hot and fast, struggling inside his clenched fist. With any luck he will smother it.

_With any luck._

He drops the eraser as he falls backwards in slo-mo, Above the sky is crystalline blue. Leaves surround him, tangle in his hair, engulf him. Some are red, some yellow, some are past their prime, brittle and brown and dead. It's alright. Closing his eyes, he smiles. Here he can rest. Here he doesn't have to think or worry about what is really happening over _there...or here...or wherever._

Someone is speaking, the voice is distant, a comfort. He doesn't freely admit his elation but inside, deep in the depths of this comfortable respite, he is forced to.

"Your leg hurts. Again." Amber stands over him, hands on hips, smiling that haughty, naughty smile that confirms she is always right. "It's always painful here, isn't it?" White clouds drift behind her, revealing the slightest trace of blue as they separate and dissipate like cotton candy at the fair. "If you don't go back, you're an idiot." She turns and leaves him, which brings him to note how...

...the carpet beneath him is thin, scratchy. He never realized how uncomfortable his floor was until just now. Above him, Cuddy has claimed Amber's place. Above _her _are fluorescent lights and the eggshell white ceiling. She kneels down, looks suitably distressed. Her breasts shift; her mouth moves. He can just barely make out that she is calling his name, over and over.

Turning his head, he closes his eyes, wondering where he might be when he opens them again.


	21. Understand

**-21-**

"**Understand"**

It's late. Much too late to do what he needs to do. But if he doesn't do it now, the words will settle on the back of his tongue and languish there until...

...until when?

Until he gets up the nerve again.

Prior to that side trip to the city that never sleeps, Wilson had it all under control. Now his palms are cold and clammy. His well planned apology and farewell have taken flight, probably sitting together on a Soho curb, sharing an espresso and laughing at him. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket but warmth continues to elude him.

Some relationships he let tool along like a jalopy on a Sunday afternoon drive, going nowhere fast. He considers each one, each marriage, each dalliance, every one night stand he can remember. They all lead up to Amber, which is where he absolutely does not want to go.

But go there he does, as he stands in the semi-darkness of Rosa's living room, as Amber's ghost moves alongside him. She takes his hand, smoothes his brow, whispers that what happened this afternoon was okay, what he is about to do is right and good and perfectly fine. She kisses his cheek and leaves him to do what he needs to do. Only now, standing in the semi-darkness of Rosa's living room, tears spring to his eyes. He presses his palms against his face, counts the slow ticking of the clock, until his composure returns. Head lowered, he makes his way down the hallway, past Michael's room and into the familiar warmth of Rosa's bedroom.

At first he doesn't see her, since the bed is made, the down pillows are plumped against the headboard. Then he hears humming, a familiar tune. Broadway. _Everything's Coming Up Roses. _Sometimes she sings it to Michael when he is sad or hurt.

The humming and creak of the rocker lead Wilson to her. Over in the corner, she continues her soft melodic interlude. Those dark eyes shine. Even in the shadows, they are bright. He can tell she's been crying.

He kneels before her, takes her hand, which is warm and dry in his. At that moment he realizes he does love her. But not with the lustful abandon he and Amber enjoyed. That won't happen again. Ever. But he is grateful for Rosa, thankful that for a short time she offered herself to him as a comfort, as a friend. The sad, simple fact is it's not enough to sustain him and never will be.

So he rests his head on her lap as her rocking slows, as she runs her fingers through his hair, down to the small of his back, where she moves her hand languid circles.

"Thank you," she says softly, as if she has joined forces with the apparition to make everything right.

"For what?" he murmurs, enjoying her warmth, her womanly scent.

"For coming back to say goodbye."

* * *

Home doesn't feel like home. The moment he enters the apartment he senses the strangeness, like Abe Lincoln surfing the web or a Muslim davening in a synagogue. Wrong, wrong, wrong, yet somehow undeniably interesting.

_Why _doesn't it feel like home? He puts the question to himself as he roams through his rooms. Cuddy busies herself in the kitchen, setting out plates for the Chinese take-out she insisted on buying on the way here.

_When was the last time you ate?_

_I don't remember._

He passed out in his office and awoke in her car, slumped against the passenger door. It wasn't where he wanted to be. He wanted to be alone to figure things out, without her prodding him, pressing him for details that are fading from his memory like remnants of morning fog.

In between time. Limbo. Neither here nor there.

_Station One..._

He swallows hard, narrows his eyes as he leans against his dresser, takes in the sights: his king size bed, the nightstand, the alarm clock that informs him with bold, red certainty that it is 7:35.

It doesn't feel like 7:35.

_Time flows differently here._

"House?"

Cuddy pokes her head into the room, which makes House wish he could send her packing. But for some reason he is too weary to be caustic, too disoriented to push away such comforting familiarity.

"Give me a minute," he tells her, staring down the wall behind his bed.

"If your lo mein gets cold, guess who's not reheating it for you." She sounds hoarse, like she is either coming down with a cold or has had a rough week. He would venture to guess the latter.

Her steps are purposeful, assured, as she makes her way back down the hallway. She thinks he binged, spent a few days and nights with hookers and pints of bourbon. Nothing will convince her otherwise. He is well acquainted with that somewhat disappointed 'you can't fool me' pout she's worn ever since he came to. It is an interesting concept. If he didn't know better he might agree. But he does know better.

He also knows he doesn't want to be here.

The air doesn't smell right; it is rife with allergens and pollutants that made him wheeze and choke the moment he left the record shop. On the drive to Jersey, his eyes watered and burned, while the stink of decay and filth latched on to him, sinking into his clothes and the car's upholstery and carpet. How is it he never noticed it before?

No wonder he passed out.

"House!" Cuddy calls from the living room. The TV drones, audience laughter punctuates the sounds of scripted words. He didn't miss this either: inanity and stupidity on the tube. Even the news was nothing more than pretty people regurgitating the more detailed and sound newspaper reports. But who reads anymore? Morons want everything handed to them. Over here everything is rushed. Over there is room to breathe. To think. Suddenly he is short of breath again. His leg hurts. The vial comes out; the medicine goes down.

He didn't need his pills there either.

He paces now, wandering the length and width of his room, like a lion in a cage. He wants to go back, _needs_ to go. But how can he? He lets his thoughts roll, plays a game of War in his head: _King takes Queen, Seven takes Two. Red Ace, Black Ace. War! _

How could he have left? What made him leave? The memory is shifting, turning, coming to him in soft pastels...dreamlike. Soon he won't even believe he could have been in such a place. Impossible. He will never get back. Never.

The thought makes him choke up, and he needs to sit on the edge of his bed until it passes. But that thought grows and shifts into something too large and unwieldy to shrug away. It falls over his shoulders like the pelt of a mammoth. Heavy, stinking. Overwhelming.

He is good at figuring things out, so why does this have him tied up in sailor knots?

Groaning, he lies down, pulls the blankets over himself. The smell of food is enticing. The thought of being trapped across the table from Cuddy, not so much. So he drifts...thinks of Misha, how she was magically, mystically all of them at once. A corner of his lip quirks up at the one memory that is still sharp as a knife edge.

He might have slept or maybe Misha did come to him, smelling raw, like a heady combo of musk and sex, driving him with an animal need he hadn't experienced since...

"House."

"Go 'way."

"You need to eat something. When was the last time-"

"Am I speaking Swahili?" he shouts. "What part of 'get the hell out' don't you understand?" He kicks at the blankets but they're too heavy. He feels locked in. Trapped. Grunting, he rolls from side to side until the blankets ease their grip and he wrenches free. Breathing hard, he pushes himself against the headboard and shoots her a glare.

For a moment she seems taken aback. Head tilted to one side, her mouth falls open. If she was about to say something, she thinks better of it and takes a step back. For an instant, House is sorry.

_shouldn't have said that...she's only trying to help you, idiot...not like she's meddling...doesn't know, doesn't understand..._

_(do you?)_

He considers trying to explain but can't seem to gather the words together. By the time he has some kind of handle on it, it's too late. She is way ahead of him, switching round on her heel and tossing him a look over her shoulder.

"I'm leaving. Food's in the fridge," she says.

The words still won't come. All he can do is sit atop his twisted, rumpled bedding in the half-light and watch her leave.

* * *

All the fixin's for a picnic are spread out on the red checked blanket. This is cool. Picnics are good, as long as he can sit on his butt under the tree and watch other people set up the grub. Turkey legs and cole slaw, potato salad and pickles. In the cooler, bottles of Sam Adams and cans of Coke sit this way and that, their lower halves buried in ice. For dessert there are chunks of watermelon in Tupperware containers and thick slices of Granny Smith apples in Zip-loc bags.

The person responsible for this bounty is Amber. Why won't she stay out of his dreams? The thought flits round him like a butterfly, pausing to brush his nose and cheeks before fluttering off to who knows where...

_she's not through with you yet, bucko..._

She plays the perfect hostess, piling a plate high with food. It all looks grand until she sets it in his lap. There the paper plate sags from the weight of squares of intestines, bits of brains and cut up pieces of heart and liver and veins that have taken the place of the picnic fare. The scarlet mess seeps through the thin plate, turning a shiny purple-black as it saturates his jeans. He wonders about this. It is interesting and pretty darn amazing too; the realization that this is his essence set before him like an offering from the gods cold cocks him. He raises his head as he senses himself melding with what never should have been taken away.

Amber smiles, holding out another plate of this horrific stew; his life stuff. Birds twitter. Yellow leaves drift around them. From somewhere far off comes the sound of pots banging, cartoon music, the crack of eggs, the sizzle of butter in the pan.

In the distance, two men and a woman sit on a hillside, watching.

"They're waiting for you," Amber tells him, spoon feeding him as he...

...opens his eyes.

Elmer Fudd has just announced that he will indeed kill that _kwazy wabbit. _A spatula scrapes a pan. The air is rich with the smell of pancakes and eggs. He considers making his way into the kitchen to investigate but the memory of tendons and brains on a plate causes him to swallow hard and remain still. The blankets are pulled up to his chin. His heart pounds a solid rhythm, assuring him it has not been turned to giblets and gravy.

_Alrighty then..._

In his head he is already off the bed and halfway to the bathroom. Bladder is in pre-burst mode and he knows he really should put that moronic dream out of his mind and listen to his inner voice of reason. But the moment he moves, his leg protests. A new thought replaces the old. _Start the morning with a buzz and a blast._ He gazes longingly at the nightstand, at the Vicodin vial standing like a humble servant, waiting to be called.

"I am not your slave," the voice from the doorway assures him.

House turns his head slowly and purses his lips. His tone is raspy and low as he raises a brow. "Ah, your lips say no but your eyes say yes."

Wilson takes a step into the room. His apron looks fresh out of the dryer clean, despite the egg mottled spatula in his hand. Typical. "Cuddy informed me how rudely you sent her packing last night. For some insane reason she is worried about you..."

"Wonderful." House takes in the shadows framing Wilson's eyes, the stubble on his chin, the un-moussed hair that flops over his brow like a rumpled sheet on an unmade bed. "You look like hell. Lost your key to Rosamundo's chastity belt again?"

Through gritted teeth, Wilson soldiers on. "...she said if she stayed here another minute she might have strangled you." He cocks his head. "How you inspire such disparate feelings in people is a mystery science has yet to-"

"I didn't need a nursemaid." House grabs for his pills, snatching the vial on the second try.

"You couldn't find your way home."

"I was disoriented."

"Half in the bag is more like it."

After pushing two pills into his mouth, House swallows, then grimaces and runs his hand over his aching thigh. His eyes find Wilson's; he opens his mouth, then closes it again, taking great care in considering his next few words. "I...went somewhere."

"Oh, I'm sure."

"No. I mean...I _went _somewhere."

"Hot tubs, seedy hotel, two for the price of one hookers." With a knowing nod, Wilson continues. "It's what you do, House."

"Not this time." Reaching under the pillow, House wraps his fingers tightly around his proof. "I got this...there." In his hand is the pig snout eraser. He thrusts it at Wilson, who immediately bursts into laughter.

"You're joking, right?" Wilson shakes his head, his smile fading as he wraps his hand around the rubber desk accessory. The odd look on his face confirms House's contention that whatever happens in Pleasant Hills doesn't necessarily stay there.

"So you hit the novelty shops on the way home." Wilson flings the eraser back at House before giving his left hand, the hand that held piggy snout, a reluctant scrutiny. His brow creases, his look darkens as he clenches his fist and tucks it into the pocket of the apron.

"You know..." House breathes in amazement. "Damn. You _get _it."

"I _get_ that you're an idiot." Wilson's tone is gruffer than it has to be. He runs one hand through his hair and gives House a glare before turning on his heel. "I want to put in on record that I'm doing this for Cuddy. This is not my idea of a fun or productive Saturday morning," he announces to the wall. He glances at his hand again before shaking his head and walking slowly out the door.

Smiling, House tucks the pig snout eraser under his pillow again before easing himself out of bed.

"He _gets _it." Not even the lingering pain in his leg can detract from the joy in knowing that this fact is indeed real and true.


	22. Dreamscape

**-22**

"**Dreamscape"**

There is a reason.

Half lying, half sitting on her sofa, Cuddy is warmed by the velveteen throw blanket tucked around her legs, and the glow of the fire brought to her courtesy of Duraflame. She watches the flames dance, and her lips curl into a smile around the lip of her wine glass. Fire can be equated with trouble, with passion, with obliteration. Tonight it reminds her of her girl scout days, those times her troop would go on summer overnights, camping out at the field behind the high school. They would huddle together, giggling and squealing around the campfire, each trying to out spook the others with the world's most terrifying ghost story.

With some reluctance, Cuddy allows her thoughts to flutter away from her girlhood. They dip and they dive, circle overhead, then float down again. When they begin to veer toward House's strange behavior and how his acid tinged salvos sent her packing today, she refuses to pull up a chair. Not now, she thinks. Maybe later she will mull it over and try to make some sense of it.

For now, she takes another sip of wine and lets her thoughts drift toward Kutner's latest bombshell. She doesn't know what to make of it; she does know she is reluctant to bring the other two 'fever kids' back. Eddie and Dan's parents are already miles past their patience threshold. How will those daddies and mommies react to Dr. House's assertion that the remedy for their children's maladies is a simple tonsillectomy. They won't believe it but will probably allow it as a last ditch effort. And what if it doesn't work? Cuddy is reluctant to think that far ahead.

Felicia was signed out last night, twelve hours after her operation. Now it's a waiting game. The girl will be checked every week until the fever time has come and gone. With any luck, in a month or two, they can pronounce her, Eddie and Dan cured.

Maybe.

This is House's call, and normally she wouldn't question him with such tenacity. But he made the call after a bout of disorientation so severe he couldn't find his way home. What should that tell her about this particular revelation?

Cuddy sighs. _See? You didn't want to think about House but here he is again._

Kutner's assurance that House seemed clearheaded when he put forth his miracle cure was a small comfort. But Cuddy will latch on to that assurance, tuck it away in that special place she keeps all her wishes and dreams and hopes.

There is a reason, she assures herself. A reason why this case has more twists and turns than a roller coaster, and a reason why House's state of mind is stranger and sadder than usual.

For better or worse, she thinks as she drains her glass, everything will fall into place.

Eventually.

* * *

They leave around midday, with Wilson wondering how House convinced him sign up for a trip to this...place. And yes, the place has a name..._Pleasant Hills, _but Wilson is reluctant to acknowledge it. The name is eerie; it brings to mind discomfiting images: _Willoughby_ from _The Twilight Zone_,_The Village_ from _The Prisoner,_ that terrifying British show, which gave Wilson such horrific nightmares, he could never watch it again.

This place, this Pleasant Hills, sounds too hallucinatory to be real. An overabundance of bourbon, pills, and sexual misadventure might have contributed to the tripped out visions. _This_ sounds more than possible. _This_ sounds just about right. Wilson considers mentioning his notion to House, but House is too driven to listen to reason.

So much for being steeped in reality.

House insists on driving, making sure the pig snout eraser is facing him on the dashboard before turning the ignition key. He drives too fast. Nothing unusual there. His fingers are wrapped around the wheel in a tight white-knuckled grip, as if he is pressed for time. Occasionally he tilts his head, muttering low to himself. He knows where he's going and he sure as hell knows exactly how to get there.

The car speakers blare AC/DC's "Highway To Hell", which inspires Wilson to reach for the volume control.

"Don't," House warns. The sedan's wheels squeal as he takes the corner turn with a little too much gusto.

"It's too loud."

"If it's too loud, you're too old."

Wilson knows he's not going to win this one; he sits back and folds his hands across his chest. In a moment the name bracelet glinting on House's wrist catches his eye. "Where did you get that?" he asks with a jut of his chin.

"There," he says.

"You're not a jewelry kind of guy, House."

"It was part of the package."

"So now that you're away from there, why don't you just..." Wilson gives a nonchalant quirk of his shoulders. "...take it off."

"Why should I?" House veers around a stalled cab and roars onto the highway.

"Hell, I don't know..."

The day is beginning to remind Wilson more and more of a twisted children's tale: _Once upon a time Doctor House took a vacation. He liked it so very much he asked his best friend to come along and see the sights with him. It was fall in Pleasant Hills and so very beautiful. His friend was sure to like this vacation spot as much as he did and want to stay there with Doctor House forever._

Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose, inhales sharply, then tries injecting a few cc's of normalcy into the conversation. "Where do you want to go for dinner?"

"Misha will cook," House says, looking more relaxed now that they are traveling at a good clip toward their destination.

"Misha. Hmm, I see. New girlfriend?" Wilson chuckles but stops abruptly at House's look of irritation.

"You have no idea where I've been, which is why I'm taking you there." House pulls the car over to the side of the road.

"Why are we stopping?" Wilson asks.

Reaching past Wilson, House pops opens the glove compartment, digs around a bit before finding a cassette amongst the receipts and registration papers. He pushes the tape in the player and turns up the volume. With a satisfied nod, he steers the car back into traffic again.

Wilson shakes a finger at the tape deck. "What is _this?"_

"Robert Mitchum. _Calypso Is Just So..."_

"Oh." The strains of steel drums and island rhythms serenade them for as long it takes to reach the exit to Manhattan.

"So when did it happen?" House taps a finger against the steering wheel.

"What?"

"When did you break up with Rosa-_lita_?"

"Who says I did?"

House's lips quirk, searching for a smile but not quite finding it. "Your actions speak volumes."

Wilson scowls. His gut twinges with that aggravating 'gotcha' tug House is so good at inspiring.

"It's Saturday," House continues in a jovial tone. "Saturday is family day, especially when there's a kiddy involved. If you want to continue the nightly schtup fest, you gotta keep the status quo." One brow hikes up as they roar past a tractor trailer. "Breakfast is eggs, bacon and pancakes around the kitchen table. Cartoons blaring from the other room, you and Rosebud sharing meaningful, cosy lo-"

"Shut up, House." Wilson's voice tears like the ragged edge of a well used blade.

House is silent for as long as it takes him to switch lanes. "You wouldn't be with me _now_ if you were still with her."

"How would you know?"

"You're not denying it. You haven't even attempted to convince me I'm wrong."

Wilson clasps and unclasps his hands in his lap as he realizes two things. One is that he will never, ever win this argument (since House has him cold). Two is that House has, as if by wizardry, veered the conversation away from himself and the mysterious _Misha._

"Alright, yes. I broke up with Rosa," Wilson admits with a casualness he doesn't feel.

"Why?"

"It just wasn't," Wilson thins his lips and clenches a fist. _Wouldn't it feel good to belt him? C'mon, just one single potent blow?_ He relaxes his hand and sighs. "It wasn't right, for either of us."

House grunts. The sound is not a self-satisfied one. It's just a sound, a response, a noncommittal, apathetic reply.

For that one instant, Wilson hates him.

"Who's Misha?" Wilson manages to ask.

House huffs out a laugh, while car horns blare like a disgruntled brass section in an orchestra pit. He turns his head toward Wilson and smirks. "You'll find out soon enough. And maybe if you're good she'll bring a friend." He lowers his voice as he returns his attention to the road. "So many to choose from, in your case. This could kill you."

They are downtown now, passing through Little Italy and Chinatown. Amber used to make fun of women who shopped here for knock-off Louis Vuitton, Coach, and Gucci bags. She had been a great believer in the real deal. "You can always tell a knock-off," she assured Wilson, who wouldn't know a D & G from a Prada, real or otherwise.

The car was slowing. Wilson raised his head, and blinked, realizing he had either been dozing or so intent on his thoughts, he had lost track of time. It seems later now, much later. Late afternoon with its deepening pastiche of reds, blues and golds, has poured itself over everything: the Asian market, the banged up Honda Civic sitting in the parking area. The place might have been abandoned. But on closer look, no. Its window was a palette of grimy grays and a weak flicker of yellow light. On display was a poor excuse for a chicken, making slow, greasy rotations on a spit.

An odd, strangled noise comes from the person beside him. Not quite a cry, not a gasp. It's some forlorn sound, as if the world has crumbled and there are just no words...

"This is wrong," House croaks, shaking his head in slow motion. His eyes are wide as they stare in disbelief at the shop window. He grabs the pig snout eraser and begins to run his thumb quickly, _desperately_ along its belly.

"You okay?" Wilson gets a sudden urge to take House's pulse. _His skin will be cold, that pulse will be racing. _House's face has gone white, the stubble too dark against the pasty skin; his lower lip trembles.

He is still shaking his head.

"What?" Wilson reaches for House's wrist but House jerks away.

"You don't _know. Something's wrong..."_

Wilson is more fearful than uncertain. Fearful as House shakily grabs his cane from the back seat, as he mutters to himself and pushes open the car door. Wilson is afraid as House takes those few unwieldy steps toward the shop window.

After a few moments, House whips around and gives Wilson a sad, impatient look.

_Come with me, _that look says. _I can't do this alone..._

* * *

_In her dream, the sky is the color of weak tea and the highway stretches for miles. She is dressed for summer: floral print cotton blouse, salmon colored culottes, the soles of her sandals scratching against the asphalt as she continues her trek._

_There is no way of knowing when and where this walk began. Or maybe here is where the story opened: a barren highway under a weak tea sky, enshrouded by a veil of loneliness, heat and anticipation._

_Too soon the sky darkens, the night descending more quickly than it has a right to. Dreams have an uncanny way of moving a story along. _

_Yellow pools of light dot the widening expanse of road. It's time to watch her step because here there be corpses. The intermittent illumination picks out a staring eye, a lolling tongue. Searchlights roam the place like partygoers looking for a spot to set their drinks. They flit from body to body, revealing unfortunates she's seen wheeled from the ER to the morgue, post autopsy casualties, tagged and prepped for the undertaker._

_And here is Amber. Staring at the world with beautiful blank eyes. Her lips part as if some revelation might be forthcoming. But there is only the sound of the wind picking up, and a scuffling, shifting noise somewhere inside the blackness._

_Shivering, teeth chattering, Cuddy reels around, spinning like a dreidel, sandal soles sinking into decomposition as she stops abruptly to meet Wilson eyes. He watches her from the side of the road, shaking his head, mouthing, 'I'm sorry', as the darkness pulls him in. _

_She manages a step or two more before the Decomposition Club decides it needs another member. As she sinks into its midst, she gets a glimpse of House behind a chain link fence, his right leg is gone, blood shines black on his hands as they reach out to her._

She wakes with a jolt, then winces at the sour-sweet taste of wine on the back of her tongue. Her cheeks are cold and tear streaked. The Duraflame in the fireplace is nothing more than blackened soot and ash.

Her temples pound; swatches of the horrific dreamscape flutter in her mind's eye, like tattered, bloodied cloth on a clothesline. After allowing herself one small sob, she throws off the blanket, then retrieves the empty wine glass from floor. She bites her lip, willing away that 'teetering on the edge' feeling the dream inspired before making a slow, halting trek to bed.


	23. Market

**-23-**

"**Market"**

_There are times when the world turns red, when nothing makes sense and the only thing you can think to do is lash out._

House raises his cane, his eyes moving this way and that over the crush of shoppers who take no notice of him. They are mostly diminutive women, middle-aged to elderly. All are of Asian descent and are much too busy to grace him with a nod or a look.

For there is serious business going on in this place that smells like garlic, sawdust, and day old fish. Against the wall are tanks filled with live clams and crawfish. The water in the tanks holds a greenish tinge, which makes House think of a slow acting poison. His fingers tighten around the crook of his cane. The tip of the cane shivers as House raises it toward the flickering yellow ceiling lamps.

Shoppers push and prod him, hurrying to the counter to purchase Tsingtao beer, fresh water chestnuts, almond chocolate and so many other interesting, exotic items. He remembers visiting places like this when he was a boy. Japanese markets. Hong Kong street vendors. Those shops had the same smells, the same feel, the same rhythm. So interesting. He would like to take his time, peruse the pastes, the packages of Shanghai noodles, the hot trays filled with misua noodles, fresh made dumplings, vats of wontons, hot and sour soups and so much more. But the chatter, the inane, frenetic banter from customers to clerks reminds him that this is enemy territory. This is _wrong._

"House, what are you doing?"

Wilson's hand is on his shoulder. House had almost forgotten about him. He shrugs off Wilson's grip as he turns to glare, wishing he would go away. There is business to tend to now. Something is wrong! And as much as House wanted Wilson to accompany him through Station One, he suddenly realizes Wilson is just going to get in the way.

"You should go." Slowly, House lowers the cane, and taps the tip against the sawdust.

"Why?"

"You're not going to like what I might need to do."

"I don't understand."

"I know." House approaches the desk, squeezing the pig snout eraser in his pocket for support. He bypasses the line to go behind the counter where Tony (yes, _that_ Tony) should be. Instead there is a five foot nothing Asian woman taking cash, her face holds a stern 'don't give me any bullshit' warning. Her black and silver streaked silver hair is pulled back into a chignon. She watches him from the corner of her eye. House wonders why she doesn't cry out, send someone running to remove his butt from the premises. He has, after all, ventured into forbidden territory.

House grips his cane tighter and takes a few steps forward. There is a lottery ticket machine and a cigarette rack where the entrance to Station One should be. He sees no knob, no lock, nothing to provide evidence that a door ever existed here. But there has to be. There is no logic behind this. No reason. It doesn't make sense.

He thinks fleetingly of the consequences before lifting his cane, before catching Wilson's eye. Suddenly Wilson seems more than frightened. His eyes go wide with terror.

"You are not doing this."

"I am." House nods and sets the cane in motion.

It only takes moments for the walls to come crashing down.

* * *

It's not as if this is unfamiliar territory: the stained mattress, the squeaky cot, the puke green walls, the smell of disinfectant that barely masks the stink of stale piss. The holding cell is like a goddamn home away from home. House leans his head back and rubs his thigh. The pain is a stalwart friend. It wouldn't turn on him just because his sanity has left the building.

He understands the problem now. Confusion has given way to a revelation as clear as the skies in Pleasant Hills. If he had taken the return trip on his own, everything would have been fine. He would have had a nice chat with Tony in the record shop, perused the "New Arrival" bin until it was time to head back to the place Wilson is now certainly convinced doesn't exist.

_Stubborn, isn't he? _Amber moves like a cat, rubbing her back against the bars of the cell.

"Go away," House grumps, lying in a fetal position now. The pillow beneath his head is actually sort of thick and cushy. He sinks deeper and closes his eyes.

_You should forget about that place, let Wilson get you out of here. _Her voice is stern but sensual. He always wondered if she talked dirty in bed._ Chalk it all up to experience... and stupidity._

"House!"

His eyes snap open. Amber is gone. Wilson has taken her place, standing behind the bars, gripping them as if he is the prisoner and House is on the outside looking in. Wilson's hair is sweaty and lank, falling over his brow in stringy tentacles.

"I'm sorry," He sounds beat, like he has raced through the Mojave to get here. "They've been giving me the royal runaround."

"Yeah?"

"You don't look surprised."

House shifts onto his back, pulls the pig snout eraser from his pocket. After lifting his head to scrutinize it for a moment, he flops back on his pillow and passes it from hand to hand across his chest. "I'm not."

"They told me they have no intention of setting bail."

"'course not."

"You demolished a lottery machine and a cigarette rack, frightened the cashier so badly they had to take her out of there on a gurney."

"All for show."

"On top of that you and your cane bashed five substantial craters in the wall."

"There was supposed to be a door there."

"How do you figure?"

"That's where it was in the record store."

"Obviously we were not in a record store. You had the wrong place." Throwing his hands up, Wilson paces, looking more imprisoned than before. "You're demented. Why am I not surprised?"

"Things aren't always as they seem."

"Really?" Wilson rubs his hands together while looking at his shoes. "Really." He raises his head. "Now I have to call your lawyer."

"No need." House tosses the eraser into the air, snatching it one-handed on its way down. "As soon as you leave, they'll get me out of here, take me back."

"Take you...where? To the limbo land of your Vicodin induced dreams?"

"We've been all through this," House tells him with a tolerant smirk. "If you don't believe me now, you never will."

"What the hell do I tell Cuddy?" Wilson's voice is soft, his eyes beseeching. He looks crestfallen, like some monumental task has gotten away from him.

"According to her edict, I still have another week's vacation." His smirk changes to a slow, sly grin. "So you don't have to tell her anything."

Wilson presses his face against the bars. "I...don't...understand."

House shrugs. "Neither do I. We're like rats in a maze, pawns on a chess board. Who knew we were worthy of such scrutiny."

Tilting his head, Wilson narrows his eyes. His shoulders slump in resignation. "And who do you think is doing the scrutinizing, House?"

"They're watching you, they're watching me. It's interesting how they do that."

"Here we go again."

"Go home," House says. "Go to work, go to sleep. Occupy yourself with something other than me."

A small laugh escapes Wilson as he begins to pace again. "You roped me into coming with you and now you're pushing me away?"

"Oops, my bad. I'm still learning how this works." House stuffs the eraser into his pocket, then rubs his leg again. In a little while nothing will hurt anymore. His memory of this place will take on a sepia tone, like an ancient, fading image in an antique picture book. All will be well. "Find out if the fever kids have been scheduled for tonsillectomies."

Wilson stops pacing and jabs a finger through the bars. "What's interesting is that you can still think about that...now."

It's House's turn to point a finger. "Go away, Wilson," he says, then turns his back on his friend. He closes his eyes. Soon a more purposeful set of footfalls takes the place of the slowly fading ones.

"Doctor House?"

A rattle of keys, a sliding noise and a squeal of metal against concrete compel House to turn over and raise a brow. The Curly-haired Big Nosed guy stands before him, a nerd wanting desperately to be cool, clad in a black leather jacket, sport shirt and jeans. A pair of sunglasses with bronze plastic frames plays peek-a-boo from inside his jacket pocket.

"You okay, Doctor?"

_Garrett. _The guy's name leaps into House's head like a dog returning from an energetic romp around the neighborhood.

"I broke my cane," House tells him.

"I know." From behind his back, Garrett reveals what is more a walking stick than a cane. It is midnight blue. A bolt of bright azure lightning emanates from its tip, rising to its middle, where it bursts into a brilliant swirl of colors. "Here is a worthy replacement. You won't need it for long, of course."

House reaches to receive the gift. Its designs are textured, fluid, seeming to shift and melt under his admiring touch.

"But you can keep it, regardless" Garrett smiles.

The walking stick brings to mind fairy tales of enchanted frogs, of wizards and kings. The romanticism of those unbidden images inspires an inward cringe. But he can't help wanting the gift, just as he wants the pig snout eraser that is buried safely away in his pocket.

"Ready, Doctor?"

House fixes Garrett with a look. "Why did you do that?"

"What?"

"Get rid of the record shop."

"Oh, didn't you like the market?" Garrett grins, tapping the ends of his fingers together. "Irie's creation. It's a pleasant little place."

"Not any more." House brandishes the walking stick, then sets it down again. "I wanted Wilson to see..." He pauses, struggling to remember the name of the town...

"Pleasant Hills," Garrett offers.

This cane has a more substantial heft than his old one. Twirling it in one hand is a somewhat arduous process. "He doesn't believe in this any more than I would..."

Garrett shakes his head, letting out a sympathetic chuckle. "He needs to find us on his own. Go through the process. Step by step.."

"Why?"

Backing into the cell's open door, Garrett purses his lips and shrugs. "I don't make the rules."

"He'd be an asset to you." House wonders why he is trying so hard to sell Wilson on this guy. The adage '_You can't have everything' _should be ingrained deep inside his psyche by now. To get you've got to give. A return to Pleasant Hills means a sacrifice. It used to be easy to get his way by charm, intimidation, reason, craftiness. Those tools have been rendered ineffectual by something beyond the scope of reason, and that's what frightens him most.

"You just want him around because he's your friend."

"No. I hate him and just need someone to berate."

Folding his arms across his chest Garrett whispers. "I have a secret." He winks. "After awhile you won't even remember him."

"Oh." The lightning bolt sizzles with a weak electrical charge beneath his palm. "This is a good thing?"

"It depends on your mindset," Garrett says. "You can't cling to the old if you want to embrace the new."

His words are of little comfort. House glowers. A spray of red and yellow sparks fly from the tip of the cane. "How do you do it?"

"What?"

"Everything."

"A keen interest begets knowledge, and knowledge begets power," Garrett taps his foot, the sound echoes off the cell walls, reminding House of that cra-azy first visit to Station One.

_This __you remember._

A chill runs down his back as Garrett continues. "I'm offering you a great opportunity. But you need to be patient and to trust. If you're willing to watch and learn, you'll eventually end up with everything you ever wanted. Cool, huh?" Checking his watch, he runs his tongue across his lower lip. A shadow of impatience darkens his features. "So, have you decided to rejoin the party, Doctor?"

It's easy to give his answer. He puts his misgivings in storage and rises off the cot. In a moment he is following Garrett out the door.


	24. Speculation

**-24-**

"**Speculation"**

The day has turned strange. There is no doubt some funny stuff is going on, and it's not simply a product of House's deranged mind.

No...it is definitely...something...extraordinary.

It's a short walk to House's car. To Wilson's surprise, the police station is just around the corner from what used to be that Asian market. The market has now been magically, mystically transformed into a different kind of entreprenaur's wet dream. Where once a greasy chicken roasted and rotated on a spit in the window, a glittering array of vintage record albums now stands: Bing Crosby, Patti Page, Vic Damone. Stuff of another time, another era.

Wilson can't help but stop and stare at those album covers, and this is probably a mistake. Because they have him now, holding him in thrall, their grip gentle yet firm. Sparkling, shiny, mesmerizing. At one point he could swear Bing tipped his hat, while Patti threw him a seductive wink and Vic blew a plume of cigarette smoke from his Pell Mell. Those smokey tendrils drift along with music flowing from the storefront speakers. It all kind of takes him away.

The music is powerfully seductive, making it impossible for Wilson not to tilt his head this way and that in time with the rhyme and the melody. He blinks, making a half-hearted attempt to break free and try to eke some sense from this. But no, the longer he stares, the stronger his conviction grows that really, he has made a mistake, that _Tony's_ has been here all along. Suddenly, the idea that he stood by while House broke things in an Asian market seems preposterous.

_Where did that come from? You must have dreamed it. Here's what really happened: House showed you around the record store, then you drove him to the train because he's going to spend the rest of his vacation in Atlantic city._

_Atlantic City..._

Yes, something clicks. Something about the notion sounds right. He dimly recalls advising House not to go off on another boozy respite, to which House replied with a salvo so bitter, it compelled Wilson to give up the battle.

_That's your story and you're sticking to it._

He feels better now. The old-time crooners pouring out their songs of love, mirth and the good life are putting him in a grand mood. Humming along, he digs House's keys from his trouser pocket and opens the car door. Maybe he'll stop along the way, take in a film before heading back to Princeton.

He wonders if the John Ford film festival is still going on; _Cheyenne Autumn _would be fabulous on the big screen. Or how about _The Horse Soldiers?_

The thought of strolling through the Village, stopping for a Cappuccino before entering the cool darkness of the theater sounds good. But the idea of immersing himself in a sprawling western (uninterrupted this time) sounds even better.

This time he will sit in a more populated area of the theater, surrounding himself with those who are simply there to watch the film. Safety in numbers, he thinks and chuckles.

So he leaves _Tony's_ parking lot, and the air seems to shimmer with a liquid heat. Yeah, it's strange, but it is also right and natural and good. He checks the rearview mirror and it takes a moment for him to realize what he sees in the reflection is a vacant lot.

_Tony's_ is gone.

* * *

It all comes back in a blistering rush, causing him to hitch in a breath and grip the armrest of the emerald green bench to steady himself. The memory of this place grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him up good. A dash of ecstasy clips him and moves on, perhaps en route to hit on some other hapless soul. He comes down slowly, wondering why the sights, smells and sounds of Pleasant Hills hadn't stuck with him when he went over. How could he have forgotten...everything? Why did he even leave here?

Two pair of jeans, three t-shirts and a football jersey hang on a clothesline behind that_ woman's _house across the street. They move as if possessed, riffling gently in the warm wind; the sleeve of the jersey rises and falls, tossing out a greeting. His own hand drifts up, seemingly of its own volition, to reciprocate.

The woman is nowhere in sight. Perhaps she is watching from the kitchen window as she prepares dinner. She had to be somewhere close by, since her boy is here, dancing amongst the clothes, whirling around and around like a banshee. He holds a toy airplane above his head, making it dip and dive through the cottons and polyesters. The clothes seem to embrace him, falling around his shoulders, caressing his cheeks.

Throwing back his head, the boy provides his own soundtrack to the dance by making a droning noise as haunting and alien as a Buddhist prayer.

It will be some time before the half light surrenders to darkness, even though the sun is sinking behind the hills and trees and rooftops. The memory of this tugs at him, how the days seem to stretch on and on like a long, slow taffy pull.

The boy is tiring now. His shoulders slump and he drops the plane onto the grass, as if it has become almost as weighty as the real thing. He stumbles around for a bit before collapsing beside his toy and closing his eyes. His mouth falls open and soon he is asleep.

House stares at this sedate scene for a few moments, until shadows lengthen, tugging at his sleeve, drawing him from his reverie. It's time to get a move on. In the distance, bells tinkle. Like the shadows, they compel him to take action. The walking stick awaits, leaning against the bench like the patient new pal it is. Its top is flat and feels strange beneath his palm. He takes some comfort in the fact that he doesn't really need it; here, pain is a filmy, ghostlike thing, hanging around just for the hell of it. It doesn't have the power to command him, and it will soon be gone completely.

The tinkle of bells grows louder, embellished by the warm hum of a motor and a nauseatingly cheerful _hallooo! _Ice Cream Man Wilson tips his hat from the drivers seat of his truck. Without hesitation, House approaches and eases into the passenger seat, setting the cane between his legs.

"Seat belt." Ice Cream Man Wilson waggles a finger at House.

"Who wears a seatbelt in an ice cream truck?"

"Safety first,"

With a grunt and an exaggerated eye roll, House straps himself in. The bells continue their merry tune as Wilson gives a satisfied nod of his head, as they roll on toward House's Pleasant Hills home.

* * *

_Smart man, Amber whispers, full lips barely brushing stubble. Smart man._

_He turns over in his sleep, his only defense, but she continues the torment, to cajole._

_Of course they want you. That mind of yours is a blessing and a curse, isn't it? _

_He shouldn't let her intimidate him. After all he has been through because of her, he should at least exhibit some gumption, some strength of will._

_She laughs and it sounds like the worst kind of taunting from the bully on the lunch line or in the schoolyard as..._

_(you think you're so bright, bright boy, genius, bright boy, genius?)_

_...darkness descends, as the sun goes down for the last time, as the lid of a coffin lowers..slow...slow...slow..._

He groans as he wakes, as the dream shatters like glass, shards flying every which way. Burying his head into the pillow helps calm him. His racing heart slows, his breathing becomes even and deep. The images are already leaving him and soon he won't remember them at all, until the next time they decide to pay a visit.

_What day is it?_

Who knows? Days and nights blend together so seamlessly, House hardly realizes how immersed he has become in this new world. Life just is. Thoughts of his other existence over there, that place where he limps and hurts and is generally a bastard of the first order, interrupt his flow only occasionally. Flashes of that world assault him like white hot novas: the hospital halls, his office, the diagnostics room, his team. They poke at him, prod him. _Remember? It hasn't been that long. _Invariably something will distract him from this invasion, lead those thoughts away, causing them to submerge deep into the murk, where they will bubble and churn, biding their time until their next opportunity arises to accost him.

Misha will be here soon to bring him breakfast. Toast, coffee, eggs scrambled lightly. House hears her puttering around the kitchen. Pots bang, glasses clink. She is not quiet about anything she does. In bed she howls and yips and sighs and exhales with the force of a gale wind. It would irritate him if it didn't excite him so much. It doesn't make sense. Nothing does.

So he will languish here, waiting for these days to become routine. For the surprise and delight of discovery to become commonplace, which is when he will find a way to leave this place. They won't like it. He can see the way they look at him, waiting for the boredom to set in. Sarno, Garrett, on occasion that woman, Irie, who intimidates the crap out of her underlings. It's fun to watch her at work; she is smart and so aware of her power. The more sparingly she uses it, the more potent it becomes. House can't help but have a begrudging respect for her intellect and savvy, but this is something he will never let her know.

Garrett and Sarno go out of their way to bring him patients with ailments unusual enough to spark his interest in some small way. Sometimes he wonders where they dredge up these sickly, hapless fools. Back there he probably wouldn't have deigned to set foot in the same room with them. Here...he takes what he can get.

On the rare occasions he does find something baffling during his exam, he drags the patient into the diagnostic room, seats them under the white light and waits for his new virtual team to arrive. The members of the team arrive promptly, as if they've been sitting in the void, playing pinochle and waiting for his summons. How is this possible? Don't these guys have practices and patients...somewhere? It seems all he has to do is snap his fingers and they drop everything for him.

_You've got a rep, old man. King of the hill, top of the heap. All the cool kids want a piece of your action._

From the window by his bed, he has an excellent view of the yard next door. It's summertime today. Early in the season. He can smell the fresh cut grass. The hum of insects and the twitter of birds provide the obligatory soundtrack for the morning. There is also the familiar sound of Chas, as he splashes and sings in his wading pool. Mom is nowhere to be seen. The last time he saw her she was sobbing, warning him about something that has now escaped him. The more he thinks about it, the more dreamlike the scene becomes. He can't be positive it ever happened at all.

He brings one hand up to his temple, gingerly runs two fingers over the light bruising there. He knows he's been 'worked' on. There are needle marks in his arm that never seem to heal completely. At times he would like to ask, to see if his guides on this trip will at least acknowledge what seems more than obvious. But something always stops him, as if the knowing isn't worth the consequences.

_(a whisper in your ear, a notion in your head)_

The pig snout eraser stares at him from his nightstand, It bears witness to everything that goes on in this room, but it ain't giving anything away.

When Misha arrives, House is standing by the window watching the boy frolic in the pool. The kid is full of energy, bouncing a ball over and over between his legs, screaming with glee as the water explodes over him and the surrounding grass.

But a more interesting diversion draws House's attention away from the boy: a nibble on his earlobe and warm, expert fingers roaming down the front of his sweatpants.

Stacy used to start the proceedings in just this way.

_How does this one know what to do and do it so damn well?_

His initial thought is to push her away; he wants to be clearheaded, to be able to mull over a situation that is beginning to get away from him. He is used to having the upper hand. Once he had control and could easily reason things through. But it seems the only one in _this _world he can control is himself. And that power is slowly slipping away.

"Hungry?" Misha purrs in his ear. "Breakfast is served." She wraps her fingers around his cock, strokes the shaft gently but with a firm, practiced urgency. He thinks of Stacy, of her smooth skin, summer Saturday mornings they used to lie in bed until the sun rose higher and breakfast grew cold on the tray. That was before the pain took all the good stuff away.

Control has taken a seat in the corner. Watching, chuckling at the way House has allowed it to slip so easily from his fingers. His hips jerk in time with Misha's ministrations, which leaves him no other choice but to close his eyes...and surrender.

* * *

"He's getting bored." With a disgruntled flip of his hand, Garrett indicates the LED screen on Sarno's desk.

"Misha's with him. He's never bored when she's around."

"The graph doesn't lie." The Afterburn in House's blood tells the story of his mood, and that mood proves to be troublesome. The red spikes illustrate his attempts to poke holes in what he is experiencing. He is not the type to live and let live, which Garrett believes might eventually lead to big problems maintaining their hold on him. A regimen of drug induced suggestions and plentiful sex would keep a normal guy happy, pliant and willing to please. Not so with Dr. House. Garrett has seen him scrutinizing the needle marks. While under the spell of the phenobarbital, he has been advised not to ask about them, that they are normal and natural and right.

Dr. House doesn't believe it.

It is more than apparent how much they need him here. He has already saved two lives, once by offering his expertise in the holographic diagnostics chamber. The other during an office examination of a fourteen year old boy. The doctor's lightning quick diagnosis of the sometimes fatal Methicillin-Resistant-Staphylococcus Aureus (or MRSA) was enough to get the boy proper treatment in time.

"So what do you propose we do?"

Garrett has made an uneasy truce with Sarno, mainly because Irie demanded it. "Play nice or you both get your asses demoted to desk duty in New Mexico," she told them. "I've got half the staff in that place clamoring to take over your positions. Their resumes are on my desk. All I need do is pluck two from the top and it's bye-bye both of you."

Sarno is staring at Garrett with a familiar condescending gleam in his hazel eyes. Leaning his palms on Sarno's desk, Garrett bridles his anger, cocks his head and nods. "Guess we'll just have to find a way to make life more interesting for him."


	25. Discuss

**-25-**

"**Discuss"**

If anyone but House had suggested it, Cuddy would have laughed it off, filing it under 'hungover physician's folly'. But she was well aware House didn't throw out instructions for a course of treatment indiscriminately. Even under the influence of alcohol and the lingering glow of hooker sex, he is still twice the diagnostician of anyone on staff.

Felicia and Dan are scheduled for tonsillectomies this afternoon. Eddie's parents have decided to wait for the results of these operations before allowing their son to undergo the surgery. Cuddy understands their decision but it's not one she would make for her child. Any port in the storm. If there was the slightest chance a tonsillectomy could eradicate the fevers, Cuddy would go for it.

Still, it's not her decision to make.

She took lunch in her office. Alone. A tossed salad and glass of diet iced tea were enough to sustain her. Lately, hunger has abandoned her. Some people binge when they are upset or anxious. But like her mother and sister, her appetite takes a powder the moment worry comes trundling along.

In a moment she will meet with Wilson to discuss a number of things. He wants to hire another oncologist, someone to help with the caseloads that have seemed to overwhelm them lately. Is it the crap in the air, the tars in cigarettes, the chemicals in red meat, the caffeinated lifestyle that is causing the abundance of tumors and cells gone awry in so many patients? It's times like these she wishes she could channel some of House's callousness, his ability to dehumanize the process of healing.

Today she is not in the mood for this. Her lower back aches, more than likely from the six inch heels she wears. They give her height, allowing her to gaze directly into her employees' eyes rather than up at them. She thinks of it as having a psychological edge. Like any vice it is easy to defend. And it is a vice; she really loves wearing these shoes.

She slows her step as she approaches Wilson's office, strolling along as if she doesn't really have a budget meeting in an hour. Her casual gait belies how stressful her day has become. The thought of sitting across the desk from Wilson makes her stomach dip and swoop and dive. At first it will be all business. The conversation will start out on the right track but then, after exchanging a knowing look or two, the chat will veer off the road and careen into the Land of House.

She is not at all pleased with Wilson's decision to once again enable her diagnostician by letting him go to Atlantic City. Of course, House is a big boy; he is perfectly able to do damage to himself without his best friend goading him on. But Wilson could have at least _tried..._

...and suddenly she is in Wilson's office. They chat amiably and easily. His case for a new oncologist wins her approval. His notes are in order; she will bring copies to the meeting this afternoon to plead Wilson's case. Their meeting is winding down and she nearly escapes before that look in Wilson's eyes holds her fast.

"I don't know what happened." He is rubbing his brow with two fingers and slowly shaking his head. "One minute we were driving along to some...place he wanted to show me, the next I'm leaving him off at Penn Station. I can't seem to remember..." The sides of this hands rest on his blotter. "...what happened in between."

The look he gives her is unsettling. He seems as lost and confused as he was just after Amber passed. That air of unreality and disbelief is as thick as heavy cream. Cuddy wishes she could reassure him nothing out of the ordinary happened, that he was just stressed and tired and hanging around with House too much. But she knows this is not the case. There is something else at work here; something indefinable, something totally out of left field.

He touches his fingers to his brow again. "I left Rosa...we split up."

"I'm sorry."

Folding his hands on the desk, he gives her an uncertain smile. "Thanks in advance for pleading my case."

"It's my case too, don't forget."

A smile touches his eyes. "I know."

* * *

He wakes with a jolt. It seems only a moment ago he was with Misha, enjoying her ministrations, the care she took with him, feeding off his reactions to her touch, her moves. She was all Stacy this morning, aggressive, passionate but with that subtle hint of neediness that didn't quite fit. Somehow she was able to emulate all the nuances, the quirks and surprises that made sex with Stacy so rousing and addictive.

He realizes now how much he had missed it, missed Stacy. He is good at repressing stuff, at blocking out the good, bad and in-between, crushing those memories into a ball and locking them away behind a sturdy virtual door. But a danger exists; those memories could always spring up to bite him on the ass if he wasn't careful, if he didn't keep a check on his mental meanderings.

House half hopes Misha doesn't return for awhile.

Swinging his feet off the bed, he makes his way to the window and pulls up the shade. It's dark out, a near dawn darkness. The grass shimmers with dew; a crow caws its question, its pal from across the road _awks _its reply. A street lamp throws a pool of yellow light onto the street beyond his yard, The light is like a leftover slice of sun, hanging around until morning comes around again.

On the grass, a woman circles his _Dr. Gregory House_ shingle. Occasionally she reaches one hand to brush her fingertips against the sign to make it swing. Her London Fog coat flows around her legs like the wide skirt of a dancer. The arc of light drifts over, embracing her, putting her on center stage.

He realizes who this is only after she stops her wandering, sets one hand on her hip, tilts her chin up and throws him an haughty glare.

_Amber..._

Behind her the ice cream truck idles. Its motor purrs, the tinkle of its bells is almost imperceptible. The driver pushes the brim of his hat up with his thumb before tossing House a wave.

"You should go."

He turns to see Misha languishing in the half-light by the door.

"Why are you here?" House asks.

"You never can tell when one might be in the mood for an early morning snack..."

_Her eyes sparkle with seductive promise, like Cuddy at her most flirtatious._

"...but you're going to be otherwise engaged."

* * *

In the town hall, two men are in the lobby seated before the mosaic layout of Pleasant Hills. One of the men holds a small black box, tilting it slightly to allow his companion to view its screen as well.

Scavenger is hard at work. It makes a _clickety-ca-tick _sound as it analyzes the doctor's current state of mind, then hums contentedly as it tells the tale, its glow pulsing like a heartbeat. It is a sure sign the doctor's interest is piqued, his curiosity factor is on orange alert.

"Could work," Sarno says around a mouthful of jellybeans. He shrugs, squints at the screen as he digs into the candy bag again.

"_Coulds_ and _maybes_ aren't going to work here." Garrett leans his head against the leather seatback. Again he is exhausted. Espresso shots and snorts of Athermine, the new experimental stimulant Irie tucked into her last Care package succeeded only in making his heart race. They did nothing for his bleary eyes and a mind that is functioning like a molasses fueled freight train. "We need to provide him with enough stimulation to make him fall in love with this place. Until we can safely say he has no thoughts about going back, we haven't succeeded." He tilts his head at Scavenger, which continues to reassure him with its golden light. "This is his playground, his sanctuary, his refuge from pain."

Sarno cups another handful of jellybeans. He shakes them once before bringing them to his mouth, which prompts Garrett to give him a sour look.

"You're killing your teeth even more with that crap. Have you gone to Beltran?" Dr. Beltran was the Nova City dentist whose expertise at fixing 'Grayrot' was fast becoming legend.

"Nah," Sarno fishes through the candy bag again. "gonna get those new implants, the ones that supposedly never rot."

"That's out of your pocket, Sarno." Garrett scoffs. "Irie's not going to approve _that."_

"Shu-up," Sarno mumbles through a mouthful of candy.

"Fuck you."

Licking his lips Sarno's eyes shimmer with interest. He leans forward in his chair and waggles a finger at the movement on the mosaic map. An opaque blue tile has separated itself from its brethren and taken off down a center artery of the town. The tile follows the path that winds through streets and valleys and back roads.

His eyes meets Garrett's. "Well, now, looky, looky, looky." A slow smile crosses his lips. "The healer's on the move..."


	26. Transform

**-26-**

"**Transform"**

"You're nothing like him, you know." For the second time since they arrived at The Waterin' Hole, House nearly takes a tumble off the barstool. It is only the quick reflexes of his drinking partner that saves him from a nasty fall.

"I told you to take it easy with that stuff." Ian keeps one hand on House's shoulder while shooing the bartender away with the other. McDuffy is being his clueless, amiable self, bringing over the second bottle of bourbon House requested. Ian is anything but a take- charge sort of guy but in this situation he is forced to be.

Lowering his chin, House makes a valiant attempt to stare Ian down. It's laughable really. The guy looks like an owl ready to tuck his head into his feathers and call it a night or day or whatever it is. Ian can't tell anymore, even though he's worked as a Shifter for the past six months...or what passes for six months here.

"You don't walk like him." House ticks the accusations off on the fingers of one hand. "Or talk like him. Your voice is too high pitched, like a kid whining for his maa-aaaa." He slaps his knee and hoots out a laugh. "You don't get on my case like he does, _for my own good."_

"Sure I do."

"You're clueless." House lifts his empty glass, scowls at it like it has done him a great injustice, then slams it on the bar. "That Wilson wannabe hair is wrong in so many ways, Ice Cream Man," One hand shoots out to perhaps do a quick style job, but Ian leaps off his stool and veers to the left, causing House to ruffle thin air.

"Don't _do _that." Ian's heart beats a mad tattoo against his ribs. "You don't touch a Shifter until they're ready. You could tear the Skin."

"Oh, yeah?" Gripping the edge of the bar, House manages to wobble to his feet, crooning, "I got a Shifter, way cross town. She's good to me." He winks. "_She_ likes when I touch her. Her moans of approval could shatter glass."

"That's different." Ian swallows hard. He hates feeling cornered and he's not fond of this job. At least not today. Not when he's been called on to prove himself. In another life he was an actor, a damn good one...

"You're a waste." With a dismissive wave, House tosses a drunken, conspiratorial grin at McDuffy. "He'd be of more use sweeping the streets or putting diapers on piss clams."

McDuffy roars with laughter as House pounds the bar with his fist.

Ian turns slowly to stare at the wall and concentrate, attempting to move beyond the chortling and cowboy music.

"Don't laugh, bartender. Diapering piss clams is a noble profession." House's voice seems far away. "If you ever lose this gig, you could always go that route. Tell 'em I sent you."

The men's laughter rises and falls, like a dinghies on a choppy sea. Ian ignores it. He needs to get down to business.

"_Me-eerrrrrle Haggard!" _The doctor's exclamation nearly breaks Ian's concentration. He curses softly, then dives back in.

Shifting is hard work. Sure, the Skin helps with the basic illusion. But his assignment is to become Wilson, not to become _like _him. He's been lazy, irritable, missing his lessons, letting his mind wander when Misha attempts to offer suggestions on how to improve his work. He needs to concentrate, utilize his theater skills as well as the components of Dr. House's Afterburn that focus exclusively on Wilson; and there is much to work with here. Wilson is never far from the doctor's thoughts. Ian senses a camaraderie, a bond that has been tried and tested but is amazingly still intact.

He sways as the energy of his subject flows over him like a slow motion waterfall. This time, he will allow it to happen, not pull back at the last minute and give in to his fears. Something _clicks. _He is Ian, now Wilson, Wilson, now Ian. The Skin draws tighter, tighter, until his pores open to welcome and absorb it. _There. _ In his mind, he steps back, holding open the door as his honored guest moves...on...through...

* * *

The song bleating from the radio behind the bar is the old country chestnut "Okie From Muskogee". "Me-eerrrrle Haggard!" House exclaims. He knows the words; they come as easy to him as the names of the bones in the ear. Even shitfaced he can sing them, and goes on to prove this as the bartender pours another shot. Chuckling between verses, House wonders exactly how much booze he has thrown down his gullet this morning/afternoon/evening. He lifts the glass to his lips, then freezes.

Wilson is here. Not the ridiculous wannabe they tried to pass off as a Misha-like clone. This _is _Wilson.

"Woah," House says before knocking back the bourbon.

Wilson tilts his head, rubs his neck and squints at House with concern. "Did you ever consider that getting roaring drunk might _not _be in your best interest right now?

"Dunno," he breathes. The fog of inebriation enshrouding his head rises up, up and melts into the ceiling. Now he is more sober than he has ever been, even though Amber is here. Again. Her arms are wrapped around Wilson's shoulders but her gaze is fixed on House.

"You're a loser," she assures him.

His mouth drops open. This is interesting, _fascinating_ even, but fear overrides his curiosity.

He whips round to see McDuffy casually drying a glass with a rag as he whistles along with Merle. The bartender is obviously an expert whistler, providing fancy trills and embellishments to the melody that are pretty damn impressive. He sets the glass down before returning House's anxious stare. "You look like you seen a ghost."

"Can you get me out of here?" House's voice is a cross between a croak and a whisper. He is loath to look around to see what Wilson might be doing, to see if Amber is still here.

"You're not showing much courtesy to your friends there."

Lifting a brow, House grips the edge of the stool. "I need to leave."

"Door's right behind you."

"So is _he_."

McDuffy takes another glass from the sink. He gives it a one eyed squint as he holds it up to the light. "Sometimes you need to face your fears head on, Doc."

"I don't need lectures. I need to get away from here."

"Why?" McDuffy sets the glass down gently between them. "You got your booze, you got your friend."

House pauses to consider this and almost, _almost_ turns around. But the thought of doing so fills him with dread. Behind him is nothingness, a straight drop into unknown, unfathomable territory. He leans forward, his fingers tighten around the edge of the bar. "Are you going to help me or not?"

McDuffy's gaze floats over House's shoulder. He gives a quick jerk of his head, then says, "Come with me."

* * *

The basement of The Waterin' Hole smells as dank and damp as a dockside brewery. There is a pervasive smell of beer, of the dirt under his feet, of something intangible, like death in a bottle.

He winces at the analogy that sounds so forced and yet so right.

"Who's minding the store?" House says, careful to duck, lest he bang his head on foil wrapped water pipes.

"Why would you care?"

Overhead, a noise like rushing water causes House to pause mid-step and look up. It's then he remembers his walking stick, leaning against the bar like a dandy waiting for his date. Shit. He wishes he hadn't left it. It's not that he needs it. It just feels good under his hand, like the crutch of an unlit cigarette between the fingers of a nicotine fiend.

"What's that sound?" House asks.

McDuffy tosses him a small crooked grin. "Change."

"Wow, it sounded like a toilet flush to me." This is when House might have twirled his cane to embellish his thoughts. Now he misses that cane even more. "There's nothing worse than a cryptic reply to a simple question."

A shadow of annoyance passes over McDuffy's face. "If there were a simple answer I would have given it to you."

"Sure. I'll bet you say that to all the dazed, drunken-"

McDuffy bangs a meaty fist on a metal door. The noise seems to inspire light to flash gold and hot pink from the slit between the door and the ground. "End of the line, Doctor." His smile widens to reveal a mouthful of smooth greyish-black enamel. "Be seeing you."


	27. Shift 2

**-27-**

"**Shift 2"**

Life goes on. It has to. The world can't stop just because House has gone off on another binge. Wilson blames himself, of course. This time there was no enabling; this time Wilson simply allowed the game to play out, agreeing to provide the transportation. How did it feel being the yes man, the partner in crime?

_Shitty._

How did House goad him into it? Wilson sits at his desk and mentally replays those hours. First in grainy slow motion, then in glorious high definition. He has done this many times over the past couple of days and somehow the pictures in his head don't sit well with him. They seem more like clips from a dream than actual memories, like peering through a fog enshrouded wood, picking out shapes that could be trees, could be deer, could be rocks.

_could be..._

Life goes on. He has a consult with a lymphoma patient in an hour, rounds to do now. The fever kids' tonsillectomies are history. Time will tell if House was on the mark with his diagnosis or had allowed his addled brain to get the best of him and everyone else.

Before leaving his office, Wilson picks up the phone and dials House's number just for the hell of it. While the phone burrs in his ear, Wilson makes silent entreaties to a bored entity who'd certainly rather be strumming a harp or flexing his wings than dealing with a frazzled oncologist. But Wilson perseveres, vowing to do an extra hour of clinic duty if House picks up the phone. If House picks up the phone, Wilson promises to donate one hundred dollars to the _Make A Wish_ foundation. If House picks up the phone-

There is no reason to worry about making good on those promises. House's phone goes to voicemail and the world continues to turn.

* * *

The lights come at him from everywhere, so bright they make his pupils shrink to the size of pinpricks and cause a thousand discordant tunes to play in his head. His chest heaves as his breaths hitch sharp and hot in his chest. The tips of his earlobes burn. He needs to lean against the cold brick to regain his equilibrium. The colors sure are pretty though: pinks and yellows, reds and golds. Every possible variation of these hues greets him.

_Ah, but it is it a greeting or an assault?_

He just barely hears the sound of a door hissing shut. Maybe he's not supposed to be here.

His teeth ache.

After an eternity of speculating and attempting to squint past the lights, a breeze whips by, gathering up the colors and the pain. Staring open mouthed, he watches as it vanishes into the night's blackness and starshine. Space debris circling the earth for all eternity. Slowly he moves away from the wall. Step one, step two...

...and finds himself in a transportation depot. A list of color coded destinations is posted on a kiosk beside a cherry-red bench. Here is a taxi stand, a bus stop and an empty tram idling...and...he is intrigued. Not even the stench of rotting garbage and stale urine can quell the curiosity lapping over him like a cool blue wave. He considers moving closer to the sign, to perhaps get an idea of where he is.

As he makes his tentative approach, he glances over his shoulder. Of course, McDuffy's metal door is gone. _Melted right into those bricks. Why are you not surprised?_ His only choice now is to face the night down and keep going.

The three-sided kiosk offers schedules for each mode of transport and a list of fare options. There is a price of admission here. You need money here. Pleasant Hills was a free ride.

Before he can scrutinize the details, he is distracted by three young women swaggering along the curbside. They are chattering, giggling, moving free and slow like they have all the time in the world. Their uniforms are simple yet provocative: leather pants and halter tops that sparkle pink or blue or firetruck red. Their stiletto heels make little _scrtiching _noises on the cement. Each wields a glossy black stick that resembles a billy club only in shape and form. These sticks have other uses, House surmises with a lascivious smirk. Some wicked, provocative purpose. He narrows his eyes. One of the ladies winks at him; she exhibits a talent for twirling her stick in a seemingly infinite variety of ways. Despite the residual ringing in his ears, he feels good, game for anything. This time he doesn't hesitate, just takes long, purposeful strides, moving closer...

They're on him in a flash and House finds himself down for the count, flat on his back, a stiletto heel planted firmly in the center of his chest. The rough coldness of the concrete seeps through his suit jacket, but there is another distraction: a heady scent of musk and these three women studying him, _devouring _him with their eyes. This would have been way cooler had he been prepared for it. But the moment does have its merits. The one with the auburn hair and green eyes leans in closer, smiling pretty, those red lips shine like apples, like cherries, like arterial blood. She raises her stick; a glowing circle of pink and white adorns its tip.

"Pret-ty darn phallic, I'd say," he croaks, struggling to lift his head as the first stirrings of an erection rouse him.

She shakes her head, her mouth pursing in mock disapproval because she knows. A woman always knows-

With a gentleness he would not have thought possible, she touches the pink/white tip of her stick to his temple, which sends him off somewhere beautiful and warm, a place filled with a lusty carnal promise. Just a taste and he's back.

"_Uhh," _Is the only sound he can manage. He closes his eyes, swallows hard. The laughter of his captors is like the twitter of birds greeting the day. He is glad they're amused and wonders if MissAuburnHair will touch him with that stick again. Lower would be better...

"...usually fourteen hundred credits apiece," one of them is saying. "But tonight it's on us."

For some reason this comment inspires a gale of husky laughter to whip round him and he's unsure if he's still intrigued. The heel digging into his sternum is beginning to really hurt. He needs to get up, get his bearings. Explore.

"Some other time," he grunts.

"Aw, who knows if there'll be another time." MissAuburnHair heaves a sigh of regret and the others follow suit. "You're going to give up a chance to spend the night with all three of us? At once? In the Top of the Mark suite at the Wylekirk?"

House knows nothing of the Wylekirk, but the Top of the Mark suite sounds pretty darn bodacious.

"No charge?" he asks.

"Absolutely. It's on the house." Again they dissolve into peals of laughter, which compels him to snicker just a bit.

It would be nice. Better than nice. But it would most likely kill him. He shakes his head with remorse for a night that will exist forever and always in his fantasies. With a look of genuine regret, he says, "The love muscle shall not be flexed tonight. So sorry, ladies." The brunette with the dragon tattoo on her neck removes her heel from his chest but looks ready to take her turn with the phallic glowstick. Another time, another place, he might have pulled down his pants, tossed up his hands, and surrendered.

But not tonight. Not now. The rabbit hole is pretty deep already. Another mile or two down and he will be lost for good.

"Ah, ah," House wags a finger, which stops her in her tracks. "No means no."

She turns away, head lowered. The third good time girl, a sultry, statuesque blonde, takes her despondent colleague's arm, murmuring words of comfort as she leads her toward the bench.

MissAuburnHair hasn't moved. It seems she has one more thing to do. "Just a little reminder...," she says, sprinkling a silvery substance over the length of House, like powdered sugar over a cooling cake. "...so you don't get too lonely."

Leaning on his elbows, he eyes the slow roll of her hips as she walks toward her friends.

_Another time, another place._

* * *

"What is McDuffy thinking about?" Sarno's eyes widen; his fists pound the arms of his chair in an edgy staccato rhythm. The muscle below his left eye twitches in time with the red sparks in the mosaic city's sky. Touching the jittering spot beneath his eye with two fingers, Sarno casts a troubled look Garrett's way. But Garrett is too busy to offer words of assurance. Sarno's emotional state is not his problem. It's details of the Doctor's whereabouts that require his attention. A sudden shift in the flow demands that adjustments need to be made before anything else. So he fiddles with the handlink adjusting the Doctor's stats and switching data to Nova City mode.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Sarno whines. He sounds oddly like Garrett's younger sister back when she was little enough to battle it out with him for the last cupcake on the plate.

"Sssh!"

"What?"

Looking up from his work, Garrett is pleased to note the sparks in the mosaic have dissipated, a sign that the Doctor is becoming acclimated to his new location. "Obviously McDuffy thought the Doctor needed more stimulation than Pleasant Hills could provide."

"McDuffy's got an attitude," Sarno grouses. "Thinks he's so fuckin' smart."

"He _is_ the shrink."

"He's a psychologist. Not even a real doctor."

"He's the best in his field, Sarno."

Sarno's eyes scan the blue mosaic sky. "But the Afterburn's reading were fine. There was no hint of disruption in the flow-"

"There was a shift. We need to be careful. We're dealing with a human being here, after all."

"God." Sarno huffs out a humorless laugh. "Irie's going to be pissed."

"Irie's not here," Garrett gaze falls on the link. What he sees causes his lips to thin, his brow to furrow. "Shit."

Sarno grabs at the link but Garrett holds it just out of reach. "He's wandering."

"How far?"

Garrett turns the screen so Sarno can see it again. "About a mile out."

"Get security."

"Not yet."

"What the hell-?"

"Not. Yet." Garrett meets Sarno's agitated look with a small, confident grin. "Let's see what he does."


	28. Roadkill

**-28-**

"**Roadkill"**

He heads away from the town, from the place called Nova City, because the place with neon and the music and the roiling, churning sounds of life is where _they _want him to go. And when does he ever pander to the wants of others? Even here. Especially here.

The hookers were part of a plan to keep him sated and hazy with sex, booze and gambling. Instead of immersing himself in a thrilling night of debauchery, he is heading down this road to nowhere. Those women were still with him; he senses their warmth, their scents, their mingled breaths that smell like mint tinged tobacco.

_...you won't be lonely..._

The glittery dust Miss Auburn Hair sprinkled over him was obviously doing its job. But he refuses to fall prey to desire, for the need for stimulation. Wilson would laugh in disbelief at this new slant in House's sensibilities. But survival means being willing to go with the flow. The aches and pains are daunting, little nips and bites and prods and pokes attack him from all angles, but he will persevere and move past them to see what there is to see.

For some reason, the dark road holds a powerful intrigue. There might be more danger here but _damn, _he can run now. Sure he can, despite the twinges. To prove this to himself he sprints along the one lane highway, which is illuminated by the occasional sodium arc streetlamp. These lights are like afterthoughts, footnotes in the margins.

_keep on keepin' on..._

The back of his neck prickles. Any moment a siren could wail or the quiet _swish _of car wheels might clue him into the fact that he is not alone.

_Where you headed, sir?_

No answer there; he has no idea.

But walking is good for the circulation, to clear his head. The blackness ahead holds a promise of something. Could be good, could be bloody tragic. In either case, he is determined to find out.

"You're bound to fail, you know." Amber fades in, like a character from _Our Town, _a play which has never failed to creep him out. Almost everyone in it is dead.

"Go haunt your boyfriend." House trudges on as the wind picks up. It bites the tip of his nose and his fingers. His earlobes go numb.

Suddenly his leg hurts.

Jamming his hands into his jacket pockets, he lowers his head and continues his trek with a lot less enthusiasm than before.

"Where are you going?" Amber yells over the wind, which howls and swirls like a troupe of banshees.

"Go 'way."

"The city's the other way."

He stops and attempts to stare her down but the wind is too fierce now; his anger will have to wait. "Why are you here?"

"I thought you might like some company before the transport arrives." A sharp gust tosses her hair over her cheeks and lips. She remedies the situation by throwing the tresses back with two flips of her hand. "I should have known you would give me grief."

It's cold, too cold to remain in one place any longer. The fact that sleet has arrived is another fine reason for moving on.

After a few steps it is apparent that something is wrong. The little aches have now turned to pain in its purest form, slipping easily into his joints and getting caught up with its best bud, right thigh. If House's leg had vocal cords it would have shrieked. House takes the opportunity to do it instead.

"You didn't think it was going to last forever, did you?"

The words that might have been his reply skitter and scatter over the highway like roadkill. He has no energy to gather them up, so he lets the elements respond for him: the keening wind and the splatter of sleet against his face relay his despondency well.

"Fine, give up," she says.

"You're no help." His breath hitches as he manages to spit out the words. Hunching over with aching slowness, he clenches his thigh with one sodden hand.

"He's coming," Amber says with a nod, pulling her coat tighter around herself. She might have left him with a 'have fun' before slipping back into the darkness, but he couldn't be sure. It really doesn't matter. Lights...headlights, spotlights, are blinding him, causing him to lower his head and blink away the moisture clinging to his lashes. His hand has gone numb; it continues to knead his thigh on its own, like an alien claw working hard to ease that slow, persistent rise of pain.

A door slams. Metal _whumps _against a rubberized frame. Now there are footsteps, unhurried, oddly comforting, moving in a way that says_ there is no need to fear, no need to panic._ House stares at the asphalt, mesmerized by the shadows shifting through the rain and headlights. Black swans swimming in golden pools of light. He shivers as the icy assault intensifies. It drips along the back of his neck, trickles down his spine. His breath hitches and bucks in his chest like a rodeo horse intent on throwing its rider; his lungs ache. He _hurts._

"I.D., please."

There are times when the only possible reaction to a situation is a non-reaction, a wait and see moment. Slowly, House raises his head. Through the droplets of icy moisture dripping from his hair to his cheeks, he spies a yellow slicker, storm boots and a one hundred watt beam of light.

"This is a restricted area, sir," the voice booms beyond the light. "I'll need to see some I.D."

It occurs to House as he tilts his head and averts his eyes, that he has no I.D. Hasn't needed any. So far, he's been protected, cared for, somewhat revered. His identity has never been questioned.

_Guess you're not in Kansas anymore, boyeeeee._

A shivering left hand sets off to explore the sodden pocket of his jacket. It comes up with the pig snout eraser. With some hesitation, he extends it into the light as an offering. It is swallowed up quickly.

The light wavers, shifting its focus to the SUV idling in the center of the road. Plumes of exhaust smoke mingle with sheets of precipitation giving the scene the sinister look of a black and white 'B' movie.

"Please get into the car, sir."

The driver holds open the rear door and House can feel that welcome warmth radiating, tugging at him. The heat will lessen his pain. Without giving himself a chance to think, he enters the car, shivering as the door _whumps _shut. With a shaky sigh he leans against the door. _Warm...so warm._ The motor revs once before the transport begins to move.

Like an good dog back from the fields his cane is here, nudging his leg, ready to be of service. He sighs with relief, lays it across his lap and promptly falls asleep.

* * *

A grilled cheese sandwich and bowl of creamy tomato soup are waiting for him when he wakes. He sits at a yellow table that is brighter than the processed cheese between his bread; the chair is cherry red. He feels like he is at kindergarten arts and crafts time and can almost smell the white paste.

He doesn't recall waking or pissing or being given his meal.

But it's warm here and he has his cane, his pig snout eraser, food, and a tall glass of milk.

While he was out for the count, someone relieved him of his clothes and dressed him in an olive green sweatsuit. The clothes are loose fitting and comfortable, and he doesn't balk at the change. Warm and dry beats cold and freezing any day. But he can't help wonder if he was drugged. After all, getting him out of those wet clothes would have taken some effort, and he doesn't remember any of it.

But he doesn't remember a lot of things.

For now, it doesn't matter. The grilled cheese is hot and good, the bread is crisp not burnt. The soup is thick and sweet and warms his insides as it goes down. Someone knew what they were doing when they served up this fare and he wonders for a moment if Misha might somehow be involved. She _has_ gotten to know him pretty intimately. The thought makes him grin around his spoon.

Of course, he could still be in a coma somewhere, the after effects of deep brain stimulation keeping him well under its influence. But somehow, he muses, squinting up at the fluorescents as he polishes off the sandwich, he doesn't think so.

The temperature in the room is set at a comfortable level but this is by no means a cozy place. The walls are the color of moonlight. The four square windows are shut tight, with the added security of a black criss-cross grating outside each one. Sipping his milk, he wonders if he might be a prisoner here. Restricted area, SUV transport. Oddly, this distinct possibility doesn't perturb him. More argument for a drug induced malaise.

His body clock has given up the fight. He has no idea what time it is and maybe that's the point.

Outside the day is wet and gray, it could be twilight; it could be dawn. No way of telling. That_ is _the point. Now and then, signs of life drift by like a disconsolate parade. Men and women dressed in the same olive drab as he wander a barren courtyard. Communication isn't a priority here. House sees no furtive looks, no raising of brows, no greetings silent or otherwise. Meandering in widening circles seems to be the only plan, and these folks are really good at sticking with the program.

A new face joins the revelers. The woman shuffling into their midst wears a raincoat so creased and dirty, it looks like a dog might have gallumphed through the mud with it. Her head is bowed but he can see enough of her face to feel a twinge of recognition. After slurping the dregs of the soup, he decides to let this fact steep in whatever is left of his mind and return to it later.

He reaches for his milk but realizes dimly the glass is empty. All done, all gone. Again he turns toward the window, the community circle capturing his attention once more.

He is still wondering about the empty glass and the familiar looking woman and Wilson the ice cream man, McDuffy, Garrett, Sarno when the door opens.

"Hello there!"

He whips around, cranes his neck and leans waa-aay back in his chair.

The man is so huge, the walls seem to shrink with each step he takes. His skin is the color of bittersweet chocolate; his teeth shine alabaster white; on one sleeve of his royal blue uniform is a red "Security" patch. He extends one Herculean hand and with some reticence House reciprocates his grip. The strength behind that grip would be enough to break bricks if jacked up to full power. "My, my," the big man booms. "You had quite a time. You were out for hours."

House is relieved when the man releases him. Hell, the guy could have swung him around the room a couple of times and hurled him out into that sad little courtyard, if the mood struck him.

"Name's John Henry," he says with a laugh.

"Of course it is," says House. "And you left your hammer swinging chores just to come see me? I'm honored."

John pulls up a chair and sits. It is amazing how the chair remains steady under his substantial weight. "I wanted to apologize for the way you were treated," he offers with genuine regret. "The area is restricted. We have to be quite careful. Lots of drunks and ne'er-do-wells roam that road at times."

"Ne'er-do-wells? Where do they rate among the hooligans and J.D.'s?"

"Gran'ma used to talk about bad folks that way." John Henry's smile widens. "Guess it just stuck with me."

House winces, sighs and gazes out the window again as the group continues its interminable trek. "I need my pills."

"Your pills?"

"Yep, you know, the little oblong thingies you put in your mouth to make the gremlins go 'way."

John Henry taps a finger against the table. "You'll need to wait until you get back to Pleasant Hills. You'll feel better there."

"I need to feel better here."

"I'm sorry." John Henry's smile is clear and open without the slightest trace of guile. "The next transport back is in five hours second world time."

"And how long is that for people still living in my solar system."

"About a day." John Henry tilts his head and his laughter makes the ceiling lights shiver. "Now, now, don't look so down, Doctor. The time's going to pass in a wink and a flash..."

* * *

It turns out to be morning. The soup and sandwich lunch food threw him off but he is okay with that. John Henry showed him to a room that is not much more than a cell with curtains, a TV, and a bathroom, complete with a tub and shower. The bed is nice. Decent mattress, fresh linens. The TV seems to show nothing but spaghetti westerns and _Alfred Hitchcock Presents_ episodes.

He tries the door but it is locked from the outside.

This is okay too since, hell, where is he going?

He can't relax, can't get comfortable. Each time he tries, his leg starts to ache and cramp and he needs to try and walk off the pain. But the room is small and he is tall, and there isn't enough room for him to do the job properly. Maybe he can join the group out in the yard. At least until the pain becomes manageable or he simply exhausts himself.

He pushes the red "Help" button on the wall and through the little intercom speaker hears John Henry who, for some reason, doesn't sound happy at all.

_Guess John thought he was done with you for a while._ _He don't know you very well, do he?_

When House asks him for yard access, John sounds like he may just blast through the small speaker and _whap _him upside the head. The thought causes House take two tottering steps back from the wall and wince. John grumbles that he will have to see what he can do. So House waits, flipping back and forth through the two channels, staring out the window at a wide expanse of snow covered field. The snow shimmers with an icy glaze that makes House cold just looking at it.

_This sucks. _

He settles on the edge of the bed and flicks back to a squinty eyed Clint Eastwood mowing some greasy hombre down in "A Fistful of Dollars".

At least someone is getting his own back, House thinks, propping the pillow behind his head as he settles in to watch.

He is just starting to enjoy the carnage when footsteps outside the room clue him into the fact that company's coming.

When the door bangs open, John Henry is there, looming in the corridor, casting a long shadow into the room. He is scowling like a storm cloud has replaced whatever lightness of being he recently possessed.

"You ready?" he growls.

"For what?"

"Don't mess with me," John Henry says. "I'm in no mood."

What might have happened to transform the Jolly Green Giant's soul brother into this massive tower of rage? "Boss man get you down, Johnny?" House asks with a glibness he doesn't feel at all.

John Henry's eyes burn hot as two bits of coal in a barbecue pit. "They told me you were different. I figured that meant you were smart enough to know when to shut your mouth."

It takes both hands pushing on the crook of his cane for House to raise himself to his feet. His leg burns with the effort, his heart pounds against his ribs in empathy. "I just need to walk for awhile."

There is a flash of something: acquiescence, sympathy...pity in the big man's eyes but it skedaddles as quick as it arrives. "Get moving," he says, motioning to House with a jerk of his head. "Now."


	29. Inevitable

**-29-**

"**Inevitable"**

Worry hasn't abandoned him. It might have gone off to play a hand of poker or take in a film. But if House doesn't return tomorrow on what is his final day of vacation, Worry will be back with a vengeance, playing thrash metal guitar riffs and hauling with it its old pal Misgivings.

Head in hands, Wilson sits on the edge of his sofa, wallowing in these notions the only way he can. _Give the emotions life and breath, endow them with human characteristics and they will leave you alone_. _For awhile anyway._

It is almost time for bed but not quite. He still has time to watch the news or plow through a chapter of the novel that is taking him twice as long to read as it should. _Who has time?_ is his excuse. It is a lame excuse, so he shifts gears and primes himself to think about something else.

He heads to the bathroom, where he takes a piss, washes his hands, whistles "March On the River Kwai".

Cuddy hasn't mentioned how the time's wound down without a word from House, how they really should have done _something_ to keep him home when they had the chance.

_But he's a big boy._

Yeah...he's a big boy who most of the time needs a kick in the butt to keep him straight.

Wilson pads into the bedroom, pulls down the blankets and slides between the sheets. Some time after Amber died he threw every piece of bedding away, replacing them with plain white sheets and pillowcases. Amber would not have approved but Wilson knew it was the only way he was ever going to get a decent night's rest. The Salvation Army might have welcomed the sort of silky satin upscale bedding Amber loved. But Wilson couldn't bear to think of someone else sleeping on sheets that touched her.

He clicks off the nightstand light and lays in the dark, eschewing the TV news and the unfinished novel. His cell phone sits in the shadows by the alarm clock. It is only 10:32. Right now, Rosa would just be getting ready for bed. He could give her a call, see how she's doing.

_How would that help anything?_

Logic shouldn't enter into it. He just wants to hear her voice.

He grabs the phone and calls Cuddy instead. She sounds half startled, half asleep. They have a short 'will he or won't he return tomorrow' conversation, which does nothing to ease his anxiety and succeeds only in dragging her down with him. He tells her he's sorry he disturbed her, but it's already too late. He can tell she'll be up for awhile.

Just like him.

* * *

This should not have happened. John Henry should have known better. He'd been on the job since the ousting area was built. As head of security, he should have made it his business to get the Doctor back to Pleasant Hills or at least make him comfy-cozy in Nova City for the night. Detaining the Doctor in the ousting area was opening the door to all sorts of trouble, but there was nothing Garrett could do to fix it now.

_Just take your medicine_, his father used to say all those times Garrett had painted himself into a corner. _You did this to yourself._

He sits at his desk across from Sarno, who is picking his teeth with a red toothpick. "Irie's going to kick your ass," Sarno mutters.

It was too soon to offer their golden goose a passkey to the seamier side of this world. Yeah, the Doctor's stroll brought him to a restricted area, but Garrett assumed John Henry would have been wise enough to get him out of there before the nightly lockdown. On occasion, Garrett's good nature and faith in his fellow man served only to kick him soundly in the ass.

He was not subtle or kind or tactful when he voiced his dissatisfaction to the security chief, which put John Henry in a foul mood.

"Ol' JH is going to take this out on the Doctor," Garrett laments to Sarno.

Sarno shrugs, scoffs and flicks the toothpick over his shoulder.

No opiates were permitted in the TO camp, which means the Doctor can't have pills, which means his pain is going to intensify. If a true emergency arises, a copter is dispatched from Nova City General under a red code, and the patient is taken away. But the matter needs to be truly extreme. The Doctor will just have to wait.

The Chronic Pain Nullification that became standard in Pleasant Hills six months ago still needs to be implemented in Nova City. The process is in its beta stages and it _is _a process; it's not magic. But Garrett's knowledge of science is limited. He doesn't know why one area of the dimensional plain is more difficult to 'fix' than another. He doesn't know why he let his curiosity get the better of him and allow the Doctor to take that walk.

The ringing of the phone causes his hand to jerk forward, knocking over a cup of pens as it reaches for the handset. He hardly has a chance to say hello when Irie begins her diatribe. She blames Garrett, she blames John Henry, and most of all she blames herself for not keeping a more watchful eye on the proceedings.

There will be serious repercussions from this gaffe, she promises. A date will be set for an inquiry. Perhaps a changing of the guard is in order.

Garrett pounds his fist on the desk, which rouses Sarno from a half doze. This time next month they could both be in New Mexico, pushing papers around in that shithole of an office, with the peeling paint and ceiling fans pushing the heat around.

_Idiot!_

It won't be Marcia's idea of a life. She might not leave him if he is 'demoted'...but she would probably consider it. One thing for sure, she will _not_ follow him to New Mexico.

Irie continues spewing out her frustrations, assuring Garrett this is the last time she will ever have to deal with such incompetence.

She ends her tirade with an order to wipe the Doctor clean after lockdown and send him back to first world. He is tainted now. His usefulness has, unfortunately, run its course.

Garrett hears a softening in her tone; a slow trickle of regret is working to put a balm on her anger. He could take advantage it, but remains silent. His brilliant ideas got him into this mess. Taking another shot at salvaging what is left of his reputation might not be in his best interest.

Irie ends the conversation with a terse 'get it done', clicking off before Garrett can say 'yes' or 'thank you' or 'sorry'.

Sighing, he replaces the handset in its cradle and throws the moping, waste of time that is Sarno a glare.

Maybe this crazy whirlwind has run its course. Garrett figures could always get some menial governmental gig. Not as much prestige, not as much money. But the stress factor would be less. He would have more time with Marcia. He could work at being a better husband. He wonders what became of his ambition.

_Maybe_, he thinks, tapping the tips of his fingers together, _this is for the best._


	30. Revelation

**-30-**

"**Revelation"**

John Henry leads him to a far corner of the recreation yard, a few yards away from the other detainees.

"There's no reason to get chummy with them," John Henry says. "They'll be here a lot longer than you will." He turns and leaves, footfalls quick and impatient over the gravel strewn cement.

A man in his fifties peers at House over his wire frames as he plods along. Wearing a bow tie and a gray woolen suit, he is the picture of professorial splendor. Beside him a chubby twenty-something woman matches the professor's footsteps along the circular path. On her shoulders is a papoose in which she carries a sleeping infant. They follow the thirty or so others, who keep their heads down, not speaking or singing or crying. Most dig their hands into their pockets, even though the weather has turned balmy. House can almost believe it is late spring or early summer.

Dusk has arrived.

_Wasn't it just morning?_

Time flows differently here.

House walks his own path, staring up at the barbed wire, wondering what transgressions these losers might have committed to be shoved into this hole.

When looks their way again, he sees her. The woman who seemed so familiar is gazing at him, dark eyes shining with recognition. She almost smiles but catches herself, as if a grin might break the spell and cause her to forget...

House turns away. He doesn't need any more problems. As it is he's made enough bad choices for one day.

_Should have headed for the city lights rather than trotting off toward the great unknown. _

Right now he could have been in the heart of Nova City, enjoying whatever pleasures those women with the odd phallic looking sticks had to offer. They would have kept him occupied for a good long-

"Hey, neighbor."

He feels her behind him; her touch is feather light, drifting from the center of his back to the collar of his jacket. Despite how his memory has turned traitorous of late, her name comes to him, like a beacon through the fog. _Jayda._

"Go away." His steps bring him closer to the fence. There he presses his brow against the wire and stares out at the ice glazed field. In a moment, Jayda joins him.

His impatience flares. "Do you enjoy coming up with new, exciting ways of making trouble for yourself?"

"What make you think I've got trouble."

"This doesn't seem to be the type of place you'd come to party hearty." The dusk is deepening, shadows are long, reaching past the fence and turning the sparkling ice to a blackish-gray mass. Still, the light is enough to allow him to see Jayda's pupils are dilated. The corners of her mouth tremble and her hands fidget with the buttons of her jacket. She can't seem to stand still.

"What do they have you on?"

She giggles like a little girl. "Oh, a little of this, a little of that."

The throng has stopped their circular trek and now mill aimlessly around the yard.

"A misdeed does not go unrewarded," he says, narrowing his eyes. "What brought you here?"

"You." She giggles again and does a little two-step. "I was temporarily ousted because I opened my yap, yap, yapper."

The carelessness of the reply rankles him. "Talk straight or shut up," he snaps. His patience has come to the end of a long road. "If you don't want to tell me-"

"I do." Her voice is a rasp, the bare trace of a whisper. Those dark eyes grow huge, dragging him down. "They're watching. They can send me back to first world if they want. Quick as a flash." She makes a couple of pitifully lame attempts at snapping her fingers, then huffs out a defeated breath.

"Alrighty then." Clinging to the fence, House makes his way to the opposite side of the yard and tries to think lovely thoughts to mask the growing ache: baseball in the summer, the warmth of a fireplace in the dead of winter. No pain...

"I'm sorry."

House turns slowly, which is a grand effort, and mentally prepares to shoo her away. But the way she tilts her head and reaches one hand to touch his sleeve causes him to reconsider.

"It doesn't matter," she says. "They'll never send me back, anyway."

_Who cares? _"Why?"

She seems a bit more grounded now, leaning against the fence, staring at the sky. "It was my blueprint, my architecture that was the basis for these cities. They like keeping me around in case there's a problem they can't fix." The corners of her lips curl into a weary smile. "I came up with this grand notion twenty-five years ago, when I was a research assistant at NASA. Chas was six; I was a single mother without a lot of time to spend with my kid."

She has been chemically skewed. Talking crap through the drugs. He doesn't want to listen anymore. But he does.

"When the project kept me away from home for weeks at a time, my mother took care of Chas. But mom was getting on in years."

_You can walk away. It's easy. Join the zombies in the center of the yard. Swing your partner near and far..._

"One afternoon, she fell asleep in her chair watching "General Hospital", completely forgot Chas was in the bathtub." She nods as if replying to some question that has yet to be asked. "He slipped trying to get out. Cracked his skull on the faucet. By the time Mom found him he'd been dead for an hour."

Her eyes shine much too brightly, and House wishes she would look away again. He wishes she would just...stop...talking...

"But here he's with me, and life is like it was before all that bad stuff happened. Better even." She sniffs and swipes a tear from her cheek with the palm of her hand. "Here I can spend time with him. Play with him. Read to him."

"You can't watch him grow."

"No."

"He'll never get any older."

She confirms this with a single nod of her head.

"They still need me for my insights, for my knowledge." she says slowly and softly, like she doesn't want to believe it. "So they've make it impossible for me to turn my back on them."

"How do they do it?"

She gives him an incredulous look. "Does it matter? You don't always need to know _why_ to know that something just...is."

He considers the ramifications. People are so easily ensnared by their emotions and regrets.

"This place is all you'll ever have," he says.

"It's better than the alternative."

"You're a prisoner here."

_You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave._

"I'm free to go. Anytime." House has never seen a sadder smile on anyone. "But I can't leave him and they know it. Now and then they find reasons to oust me, just as a reminder of what it would be like to not to have Chas. They know how much it hurts." She runs her hand through her hair and stares through the fence at the desolation. "They know how to keep you here, Greg, so don't think your smarts can save you. Now it's all interesting and wonderful, a puzzle you may never solve but is too mesmerizing to stow away. Eventually they'll find something that they can use to hold you here. Something that will make it impossible for you to leave." Her fingers dig into his arm. "You need to get out before it happens."

Out on the ice, Amber smirks and tosses him a curt little wave.

"Go_ home_, Greg," Jayda whispers, easing her grip and letting him go.

From the corner of his eye he sees the throng being herded back inside the facility.

Two members of the security staff weave through the crowd, occasionally offering a shove to some unfortunate straggler. House presses his back against the fence at their approach, fully prepared to be hauled inside with the others, but they pass him by. They're here for Jayda. One of them grabs her arm, the other brings up the rear, wielding his club. She manages one last backward glance at House before being taken away.

Somewhere calypso music is playing. The singer's tone is rich and alive, yet filled with melancholy. "Jamaica Farewell", is the song.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, House gazes up at the starless sky, realizing with an unshakeable certainty he will never see Jayda again.

Not that it matters. He won't remember her anyway.


	31. Move

**-31-**

"**Move"**

The last of his books, furniture and clothing have been hauled away by the movers. Marcia had her stuff taken out of the apartment last week and shipped to her sister's house in Brewster, New York. Garrett never liked Marcia's sister. He is glad he won't have to deal with her accusatory looks and patronizing, insulting barbs.

No, he won't be joining Marcia on her trip upstate. They have decided to put this marriage on hold, give it a 'trial separation. Actually, It was Marcia who did the deciding; Garrett just went along for the ride.

It's not in him to walk away without a fight. But he doesn't have the energy to do battle, plus he doesn't want this separation to begin on a hostile note.

To salvage a relationship you need to stick with it, work out the knots and kinks. He realizes he hasn't done enough of that lately. Second world, Pleasant Hills and Dr. House had taken him away from what should have been his first priority. But his marriage never took precedence over his job. It's been this way since the beginning, and Marcia, always so intuitive and _right,_ realized this long before he did. Garrett is just now catching up. He is 'gettin' with the program', as Sarno might say.

Hindsight is a bitch.

This sure hasn't been the best week of his life, he thinks, roaming the apartment's empty rooms. Now and then he picks up a small reminder of what used to be: a plastic gardenia from one of Marcia's old hats, a receipt from Pompano's, the Italian restaurant where the entire wait staff knew them...

He tosses the receipt and flower in the green trash bag by the door, mulling over the circumstances that caused the walls to crumble and fall. Certainly the separation had been imminent. But it might not have come to pass this quickly had Dr. House actually cooperated and not gotten trapped in the TO during lockdown or had that second sweet little conversation with Jayda.

_Round and round and round..._

Garrett's biggest mistake had been allowing the doctor to venture past the town line. He should have heeded Sarno's warning. But when had that loon ever been on the mark?

_There's a first time for everything, bucko._

Bistelli was called in to do the cleanup, even though with the newer technology it was possible to implant false memories without physical contact. In the doctor's case, Irie was reluctant to let this go the regular route. They needed to bring someone in with a no-fail rate. Bistelli was expensive but he was the best hypnotherapist the project held on retainer. After three sessions, the doctor firmly believed he'd been in Atlantic City on vacation, getting extremely twizzled and succumbing to the charms of the working girls.

It's a shame, really, Garrett laments, digging in his trouser pocket for his car keys. The doctor would have been a perfect resident, if he hadn't been so damn bull headed, strong willed and overly curious.

Garrett will put this behind him; there are other things to consider now. His flight to New Mexico leaves in five hours. Irie reassigned him to desk duty indefinitely, leaving Sarno back in the Pleasant Hills town hall. Garrett's replacement has already been dispatched to Station One.

He's actually more okay with this than he thought he'd be. Yeah, it's a brand new start in a crummy old place. But at least in New Mexico, there are twenty-four hours in a day, sixty minutes in an hour. Buildings stay where their foundations are set.

_Give it time. That could change too._

Espresso will definitely be off the menu; he may even give up caffeine altogether, if he can manage it.

Garrett allows himself one last look at the apartment he shared with Marcia before closing the door behind him. He twists the knob twice, making sure the place is locked up tight, then walks down the hall without looking back.


	32. Welcome

**Author's Note: **The cyclical fevers referred to in this story are culled from an actual case. The malady seemed like one they might consider for the show (even though the eventual cure was kind of simple).

Thanks so much for sticking with the story! I'd like to thank **Betz88** for her support, encouragement and for agreeing to be my first reader. Her help has been immeasurable.

**-32-**

"**Welcome"**

"You look like hell."

House raises his head and fixes Wilson with a sinister glare. "My teeth hurt."

"Generally when these things happen, normal people make an appointment with a dentist." Wilson folds his arms across his chest. "Perhaps you'd like to pick up the phone and...give it a go?"

Grumbling, House reaches past the file folder, pen cup and pig snout eraser to retrieve his hand mirror. He tilts it just so and scrutinizes his left canine and right front tooth, wondering how they could have possibly started to rot. Just like that.

"They're grey," he whines.

"Nice observation." Wilson leans over House's desk, grabs the receiver from its cradle and thrusts it at House, who ignores him as he continues to gaze morosely at the discolored enamel.

"So?"

House slams the mirror down and snatches the phone from Wilson "I'm going Friday. Happy? I'll wait while you mark the big event in your date book." He drops the receiver into the cradle.

"You've been a real pain in the ass since you got back," Wilson says. "You know that?"

"My _teeth_ hurt."

"That's no excuse for dozing off when you've got clinic duty. It's no excuse for giving your staff a double shot of fire and brimstone when their DDX is not up to your standard."

"They've gotten lazy over the past two weeks."

"You mean during the time you were rolling around the honeymoon suite of The MGM Grand with _three_ hookers?"

"They had pleasure tasers." House sighs, suddenly growing warm in all the right places.

"What the hell is a pleasure taser?"

House opens his mouth to reply, but Wilson stops him with a curt wave of his hand. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

"Are you sure?" House cocks a brow and smirks.

Behind him are footfalls, muted voices and the sound of the office door opening. Reluctantly House swivels his chair around in time to see Cuddy leading a short, dark-haired woman into the room. Accompanying her is a much shorter, dark-haired child.

"Dr. House, you remember Felicia and her daughter Eloise." Cuddy smiles that toothsome professional grin.

"I'm busy," House says, swiveling his seat back to its starting point.

It doesn't help. The mother is driven, rounding his desk with her spawn in tow. Her eyes flash a mix of glee, awe and gratitude, giving House even more of an impetus to want to take flight.

"This is one of the fever kids?" he asks after a moment, his gaze fixed on his hand tapping the pig snout eraser against his desk.

"You cured her and the other two," Felicia breathes. "How did you know-?"

"I'm a doctor. It's what we do-" His head whips toward Cuddy's for a half second before reluctantly meeting Felicia's eyes. "-or at least it's what we're supposed to do."

"Still." The mother's showing all the signs of imminent meltdown. The trembling lips, the shivery hands. Any minute she is going to dissolve in a puddle of tears, which makes House want to throw the eraser at her. But the kid steps up to save the day. Mother gives daughter the floor, stifling a sob and taking a step back. After grappling with some crap in her purse, Mom finds a lipstick smeared tissue and presses it against her eyes.

"Thank you, Dr. House." Eloise possesses a glow few kids have when they smile. Like there is nothing dark, or secretive or bad in her life. She reaches out her hand. To reciprocate, House places the pig snout eraser in her palm and closes her fingers around it.

"Go away now," he says softly.

She grips the eraser a little tighter and turns her head to beam at Cuddy. After a moment, she takes her teary-eyed mother's hand and leads her out of the office.

Chuckling, Wilson shakes his head as Cuddy seats herself on the edge of House's desk. "How did you know?" she asks.

"Took a chance." He rubs his fingers together. For some inexplicable reason, he is beginning to regret giving that damn eraser away. "According to two teeny tiny reports in an obscure Swedish medical journal, a number of kids over there suffered the same type of unexplained cyclical fevers as your fever kids. Some of them got better after having tonsillectomies. Figured if it worked for the Swedes why not us? Even if they do have better endowed nurses who are a lot more willing to put out."

"Doesn't it bother you not to know why it worked?"

Running his fingers along the chains of his 'Greg' ID bracelet, he mulls over the fact that there is always a reason. "Yes," he mutters.

They are watching him too closely, waiting for the revelation that is not to be had, at least not today. The wheels are clickety-clacking but the train has derailed.

"In the meantime, your team is waiting with a case for you," Cuddy says. "Forty-two year old woman-"

House stops her with a look. "Forty-two year old woman suffering from status epilepticus seizures, no prior history of convulsions or other psychic symptoms. Taub and Kutner are getting an electroencephalogram and a para-sagittal MRI. Now go away."

Cuddy heaves tolerant sigh, and offers House a somewhat disappointed frown. Foiled again.

"You've been hiding out in here since you got back three days ago, House," Wilson continues to stand with his arms folded over his chest. It's a defensive stance. In this world it's always best to be prepared. You never know what might just jump out and bite you on the butt. "Why?"

"I like it here. Did I say 'go away'?" House closes his eyes and dismisses both of them with a hitch of a thumb over his shoulder. "Why, I believe I did."

They leave, muttering to one another. _Don't like it? Too damn bad._ When he hears the door hiss shut, he moves to his Eames chair by the window and stretches out. No one understands that it takes time to recuperate from vacation. Getting back into the routine isn't easy, especially when the memories of the downtime are so vague.

_What did you do? _The question has been nagging at him, tearing into his grey matter like ragged, rusty nails.

Dreams are good, he thinks, closing his eyes, willing himself to drowse. They usually help to make sense of the conundrums that stymie him in the waking world. But lately, he thinks, drifting deeper, those dreams haven't helped much. First off, Amber is there. Always. She does the 'walk and talk' before him like some pissed off 'man-in-the-street' interviewer, guiding him through some world that could only exist in his skewed mental meanderings. Buildings move, seasons come and go on the whim of a god with an interesting sense of humor.

She's no friend; she never offers him a way out. All she does is force him to move deeper, look harder...

Sometimes she leads him to an emerald green bench and abandons him there, saying she has better things to do than be his babysitter. That's when he is forced to watch the passing parade: the moving throng is a blurred wash of watercolor, yet he knows them and they know him. They march along to steel drums and calypso sing-a-longs. "Matilda" and "Jamaica Farewell". Around the corner the corner they go, and the minute he is satisfied they have disappeared, they return. This happens many times before they finally give up and take a permanent hike. Only then is he permitted to see her again-the woman hanging clothes. Her coffee and cream colored skin shines softly in the waning sunlight. Her boy plays leapfrog over wooden crates until the clothes on the line become much more enticing to him.

This is when longing and melancholy attack House like a tag team.

He wants to run.

_Not_ _likely. _Amber sits beside him on the bench. He is glad when she deigns to stick around, but it doesn't always happen this way.

_Look._

One thing remains static in this dreamscape. It always ends with the kid smiling, dancing, weaving in and out of the cotton, linen and denim that float around him like spectral guardians. "Welcome!" He squeals and laughs, while twirling and dancing with his ghostly minions.

The sun burns red over the trees as the woman turns toward him; her laughter rises like champagne bubbles, embellishing the boy's raucous, joyful noise. After a moment, she leans over to ruffle his hair, inspiring him to wrap his arms around her legs. His smile is beatific, angelic.

His lips curl up and his eyes fall closed. "Welcome." The word is soft and wistful, crooned like a lullaby. "Welcome."


End file.
